Peace Of Mind
by Mage Myrddin
Summary: Fate and Death owes Harry, so Fate sends him to an alternate universe to live out his childhood again. Most of it, anyway. Harry definitely didn't want to be stuck as eleven again. The reason for the change? Harry is supposed to achieve 'peace of mind.' Whatever the hell that means. WARNING: Mild swearing and non-canon character death.
1. Chapter 1 - Not a Happily Ever After

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Inspired by the story C'est La Vie, written by cywscross**

 **Chapter 1 - Not A Happily Ever After**

It was Christmas again, a little over three years after the long and bloody second war against Voldemort had ended. Harry walked alone through the cold, snowy graveyard, little flakes of ice clinging to his pitch-black hair. He could hear people singing Christmas carols in the church, but the snow muffled everything else. He walked between rows and rows of graves, pausing briefly at the final resting place of Ignotus Peverell and inwardly scoffing at the reminder of the Hallows, before continuing on.

Always on alert, even now that the last of the Death Eaters had been apprehended, Harry used the techniques that had become second nature to him over the years to ensure he wasn't being followed. A small part of Harry's mind constantly kept tabs on his surroundings, listening for echoing footsteps behind him, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye when he turned corners for people behind him, and flicking off small wandless spells to detect any magical presence. Part of Harry wanted to believe that being so alert wasn't necessary any more, but that same part also believed that Dumbledore could do no wrong and that it was possible to save everyone. Harry had long since stopped listening to that part of himself.

He stopped at his parents graves again, staring down sadly at the stone that marked their spot, but before long he moved on, brushing a hand along their names and whispering to them as he left. "Halloween is your night. Now I'm here for another."

Only a few rows later, Harry found exactly who he was here for. He stood in front of a headstone smaller than the others, befitting of the child inside. Thirteen simple words adorned the grave marker.

Here lies Teddy Lupin

May his afterlife be more peaceful than his death

Tears slipped unnoticed down Harry's cheeks as he remembered the boy that he'd come to love like a son. The boy he'd have damned the rest of the world to save, the boy he'd have died for without a seconds thought, despite the fact that Voldemort would inevitably take control after he, Harry, fell. The General of the Light.

Harry couldn't help but think that the title was fitting, if a little simplistic. He'd been fighting Voldemort since he was one, simply by existing. After he had reached Hogwarts, he was forced to fight the dark lord time and time again because no-one else could. After Hogwarts, well ... things had taken a nose dive from fighting at the end of the year because of whatever scheme the psychopath had managed to dream up this time, to fighting all the time and telling everyone else where and when to fight. Never mind the fact that he'd barely reached his majority before he was forced to make decisions that could mean the difference between life and death for those who put their faith in him, regardless of his lack of experience.

The title was simplistic because after so long fighting and killing, Harry knew that none of them, least of all him, were truly Light. Even those who had never fought bore witness to terrors, and by extension were not Light either. Voldemort's comment about how there was no good or evil, only power, in Harry's first year seemed truer than he had ever realized now that he had won a war, although not completely correct. Harry would say, everyone had good and evil, it was all in how you used the power given to you.

After Dumbledore's death at the end of his sixth year, the shit really hit the fan, to put it mildly. Harry activated Ravenclaw's legacy, a wardstone that would expel anything dark from the school. Including the Dark Mark. All of the Death Eaters were tossed rather roughly out of the school along with everything else even remotely Dark. Unfortunately, Ravenclaw's wardstone was a one-time thing, and it came too late to save the Headmaster.

Over what would have been Harry's seventh year, Voldemort's Death Eaters besieged the wards. The main purpose of this was not to take them down - wards that had stood for centuries were not going to fall because of a few Dark wizards - but to find weaknesses. Once, a team of Death Eaters managed to slip inside and murder over a twenty students in their sleep before being caught. Another time they had cast curses on the incoming owl post that would kill both the owl and the recipient of the letter and then redirected the owls through a hole in the wards so that the curses wouldn't automatically be removed upon entering Hogwarts grounds.

As soon as the weakness that allowed the previous attack was discovered by the teachers, they would try to stop it as best they could while the Death Eaters would begin searching for another way in. One by one, the residents of Hogwarts were being picked off, with no escape.

With the fall of the Ministry Voldemort controlled most forms of travel, including the Floo network which Hogwarts was cut off from. If they walked out of the gates then they would be killed by Death Eaters and even the secret passages out of the castle were being monitored, thanks to Pettigrew. People who snuck out of the grounds were soon found again at the gates of Hogwarts - tortured and mutilated. Thankfully, most of the DA were aware that Hogwarts was not going to be safe that year, and opted to join the Order of the Phoenix instead.

At the same time, Harry, Ron and Hermione were on the run from the Ministry. They apparated straight to Grimmauld Place only to find Death Eaters watching it. Luckily the sound of traffic nearby covered up the crack of their arrival and some bushes prevented them from being seen. They would have left again, but Ron had been splinched when they arrived, so Hermione had set up protective spells to keep them from being seen or heard and they had camped there for the night.

In the morning they had woken to find Moody standing over them, barking about Constant Vigilance. He'd almost died picking Harry up from the Dursleys for the last time, but Mundungus Fletcher had tried to run away and was Banished back into the fight by a Death Eater, straight into the Killing Curse meant for the old ex-Auror. Moody had gone to Grimmauld Place to see if anyone had gone there after the Ministry fell, only to find them with his magical eye. Moody had taken them to the rest of the Order who had survived, and Harry was quickly thrust into the role of leader because he knew how Voldemort had cheated death and no-one else really wanted to know, given that it would be on their head should Voldemort know that they knew.

With Harry as the leader, the Order never met at the same place twice. Hermione distributed mirrors to everyone that were only connected to Harry's mirror, so they could report from a distance and be sent off on a new mission straight away if possible, as Voldemort was even monitoring Apparition. Muggle transport was the safest way to go, which unfortunately, took far longer. The mirrors also displayed the date and time and location of their next meeting and were keyed to the owner's magical signature.

In order to stop spies from entering the Order, Hermione had everyone sign a piece of parchment similar to the one she used for the DA, although this time the consequences were far more painful, and fatal. Despite that, everyone willingly signed.

The war waged on for eight years in total, from the beginning of what would have been Harry's seventh year to when he was twenty four. If there was anyone left alive in Hogwarts by the end of what would have been Harry's seventh year, they weren't showing themselves, and since no-one else was sending their children there, the Death Eaters left it alone as they couldn't enter. The rest of the population was forced to take a side. A lot of people were forced to take the Dark Mark, often on pain of their children's lives. Everyone else joined the Order, even if they couldn't fight.

Much of magical Britain fell in those five years. Family after family was killed in Voldemort's raids. Death Eaters killed Order members and Order members killed Death Eaters right back. Hermione taught the protection charms she used to hide from Death Eaters that first night to every Order member she could, and they taught it to every Order member they could. Many people in the Order who couldn't fight were saved because they could use those charms to hide.

Draco and Lucius Malfoy joined the Order because Voldemort killed Narcissa. Harry had their Dark Marks removed and Draco became his second in command, alongside Neville. They soon began to spread the news that they could remove Dark Marks, and those that had been forced into service came flocking to the Order.

Two years into the war, the vampires, werewolves, giants and trolls left Voldemort's army because he failed to uphold his end of the bargain and grant them what they agreed on in return for their aid. Three years into the war, Gringotts allowed their human employees to use bank resources to fight Voldemort. The curse-breakers turned out to be just as good at putting up wards as they were at tearing them down. Harry soon had half of them making an abandoned castle unplottable, untraceable, unreachable, and impossible to Portkey into while the other half searched for and found some of Voldemort's bases so that the Order could take it out.

As soon as his new base was completed five years into the war, Harry organised the relocation of every non-combat personnel to the castle, as well as any Order member in need of long-term medical care. Thanks to the sheer diversity of people who had joined the Order, Harry had at least one specialist in almost every field. Before long, the base was self-sufficient, as well as under the Fidelius with Harry as the secret keeper.

With the more vulnerable people who needed protecting away from Voldemort, the people in the Order who were capable of fighting could afford to play dirty. In other words, terrorist tactics, or guerrilla warfare. Suicide missions that only required one or two Order members and often killed dozens of the enemy.

The Order became smaller day by day, until seven years into the war, one of Harry's second-in-commands, Neville Longbottom, died to protect Teddy Lupin from Bellatrix Lestrange. Neville's last thought as he sacrificed himself for Harry's godson was that he hoped reinforcements would arrive in time to save the six year old boy.

His hope was in vain. Both Neville and Teddy died on Christmas Day. Only a year later, a now far more ruthless and unforgiving Harry Potter led the Order against Voldemort for one final time.

The Order was outnumbered by the Death Eaters three to one, but they fought valiantly. Finally, after almost all the Order was decimated, Harry and Voldemort began duelling.

Harry won.

The magical blast from the collision of their spells not only literally wiped Voldemort off the face of the planet - all his Horcruxes having been destroyed - but also killed all the Death Eaters that still bore his mark. Everywhere.

In the confusion that followed Harry sent the Gringotts people who had constructed the safe castle (that thankfully, Voldemort had been unable to find, thus preserving a large number of people with the knowhow to rebuild society) to the Ministry of Magic to rebuild, this time without a god-awful statue before stepping down and handing the reins to the magical world to his remaining second in command, Draco Malfoy. Harry had no doubt that if he hadn't publicly supported the former Death Eater, someone would have tried to kill him within the week.

With Draco settled in as Minister, the rebuilding effort began. All the magical races were contacted and asked for help. In return they would have seats on the Wizengamot and would be allowed to teach the culture and history of their race at Hogwarts, as well as being considered for any other posts that they chose to apply for. Many agreed quickly, though some negotiated harshly, not quite forgiving the Wizarding World for all that they had inflicted upon them for the sake of prejudice.

Hogwarts was reopened after the bodies of the previous students and teachers had been given to their closest living relatives for burial. The wards had been updated and the curse on the DADA position had broken with Voldemort's death.

Harry himself had quickly withdrawn from the public eye, living in Grimmauld Place under the Fidelius, with only his closest living friends knowing his location. Percy Weasley, the only remaining Weasley, who had become one of the bravest members of the Order after the death of the brother he had always been closest to, Bill. Hermione, who threw herself into rebuilding the Ministry with multiple checks and balances designed to prevent and weed out corruption. Draco, who understood the part of Harry that was capable of killing far better than his other friends could, despite the lengths that the war had driven them all to.

The only time he ever left the house anymore was either to fly in the dead of night, pulling off ridiculously dangerous stunts that would have got him banned from Quidditch for a month if he were still in school but were necessary when you were escaping Death Eaters, or on Christmas or Halloween or the other dates that people close to him had died on, when he went to visit their graves. He hadn't been seen for so long that it was a commonly accepted truth that he was dead, either because a Death Eater had finally caught up with him or because he'd committed suicide in the aftermath of the war. Even after a war that would take magical Britain generations to recover from, the gossip mill was still going full steam.

Harry sank to his knees in front of Teddy's grave, ignoring the cold that seeped into him. It was three years since the war had ended, four years exactly since Teddy died ... since he failed Teddy. He'd give anything at all to have the happy, hopeful boy back, but that wasn't how life worked.

The Deathly Hallows had been his since the end of the first year of the war. He used them to fight Voldemort, but no matter how many people died, he never ever used the Resurrection Stone, not since he'd died in the Forbidden Forest. He didn't want to hear them blame him. After Teddy died, the temptation grew, but so did the fear that those he called to him would hate him. Despite that, the only thing that stopped him from going ahead and seeing Teddy was something Dumbledore said in his first year.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, Harry, remember that."

The knowledge that calling Teddy back wouldn't make him alive, wouldn't make him the same as he was before, was all that stopped Harry. And then the war ended.

He had seen how much damage the Hallows could do and rightly concluded that leaving them around for anyone to find once he had died was a spectacularly bad idea. Harry broke and threw away both the wand and the ring numerous times, but they always seemed to come back. Eventually in a fit of rage, he had used the wand to destroy the ring, and to his delight the power of the combined hallows was broken. After that, the wand didn't fix itself when snapped, so he tossed one half in the Room of Requirement and placed the other in Dumbledore's tomb, to be found by whichever idiot tracked the deathstick to one of the most powerful wizards ever to live. Harry hoped they enjoyed the fact that they only succeeded in finding half of a hallow.

All of which led them here, sat by the grave of one that he loved like a son, both wishing desperately to speak with Teddy again and afraid of what the dead child would say. Barely having contact with the outside world, rarely speaking to anyone other than himself, with no goal to achieve or direction to take in life. He might as well be dead.

In the distance, the clock tower struck midnight. On the twelfth stroke, a ball of golden light appeared rather abruptly behind Harry. Noticing the light instantly, the wandless spell that indicated magical presence chiming crazily in his ear, Harry threw himself to the side and rolled up, stopping the magical detection spell and placing a wandless shield charm up instead. His wand appeared from it's custom holster and a curse was ready on his lips as he took in the unusual sight before him.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, his voice rough and his eyes gritty with grief and memories.

"I AM FATE." The glowing entity spoke. At least, Harry was pretty sure it spoke. The words seemed to appear straight in his head without going past his ears.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Why are you here? You've screwed up enough, I think."

"IT WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WAY. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO DIE ONLY HOURS AFTER YOU DID, BUT RULES WERE BROKEN AND HE SURVIVED. MANY PEOPLE WHO DIED SHOULD HAVE LIVED, AND MANY WHO LIVED DESERVE TO DIE. YOU BROUGHT THE BALANCE BACK BY KILLING HIM, AND FOR THIS I OWE YOU A DEBT."

"You didn't answer my question." Harry said dangerously. "And why do I care? I didn't kill him for you."

"DEATH ALSO OWES YOU A DEBT, FOR YOU ENSURED THAT NONE COULD BECOME HIS MASTER IN THIS WORLD. AND YOU CARE BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT HAPPY. WE WISH TO HELP."

"I want nothing from you." Harry growled.

"OH? WE WOULD SEND YOU TO A NEW WORLD, A NEW LIFE. YOU WOULD HAVE LODGINGS, MONEY, SEATS ON THE WIZENGAMOT SHOULD YOU CHOSE TO TAKE THEM. YOU COULD FIND PEACE."

Harry snorted. "Trouble finds me like a magnet. It wouldn't be peaceful for very long."

"YOUNG WIZARD, DO NOT DELIBERATELY MISUNDERSTAND MY STATEMENT. YOU HAVE NOT FOUGHT FOR THREE YEARS, AND YOU ARE NOT HAPPY. I MEAN PEACE OF MIND."

"Peace of mind?" Harry looked at Fate oddly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Never mind." He said before Fate could answer. "Where exactly do you want me to go?"

"AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. A WHAT-MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN OF YOUR LIFE. YOUR PARENTS WOULD BE ALIVE, AS WOULD THE HARRY OF THAT WORLD. THE MAJORITY OF YOUR POSSESIONS WOULD GO WITH YOU. YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE YOUR INVISIBILITY CLOAK, AS THERE IS ALREADY ONE THERE. YOU WOULD BE ABLE TO CALL ON DEATH AND I WHENEVER YOU LIKE, THOUGH I ASK YOU ONLY DO SO WHEN NECESSARY. THAT WORLD WOULD NOT HAVE A WAR, AND IT'S POSSIBLE THAT YOU COULD LEAD THEM THROUGH THE CHANGES THAT OCCURED FOR THE BETTER AT THE END OF THE WAR WITHOUT THE SAME DESTRUCTION IF YOU CHOSE."

Harry internally cursed his hero complex for making him want to accept before considering it logically. Was it worth it? Fate was telling the truth about owing him, but that didn't mean Fate was telling the whole truth.

"People will figure out who I am pretty quickly if I look as much like my father as everyone says." Harry pointed out.

"I WILL TAKE CARE OF YOUR LOOKS AND BACKGROUND. YOU WILL HAVE TIME TO ADJUST TO YOUR NEW LIFE BEFORE ANYTHING IS EXPECTED OF YOU."

Harry hesitated. He knew that when something seemed to be to good to be true, it usually was. But still, what did he have to lose? He wasn't doing a lot - or even anything - here. "Very well, I'll go." He agreed.

"DONE." Fate said, sounding oddly triumphant. Before Harry could wonder why he felt so uneasy at the obvious victory in Fate's voice, the world swirled around him and he fell into his first dreamless sleep since forever.

* * *

 **So, first chapter again. THIS HAS BEEN REWRITTEN. One of my reviewers pointed out that it wasn't enough like C'est La Vie by cywscross to cause concern, and while that is true, I think I could write bits of it better.**

 **So here we are. Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	2. Chapter 2 - Hallows Manor

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 2 - Hallows Manor**

Harry came to awareness quickly, automatically regulating his breathing and keeping his muscles relaxed to give the appearance of sleep, as he always did whenever he woke up not in Grimmauld Place, which was warded to high hell. Motionlessly and wordlessly he flicked off the wandless spell to detect magic. There were no living creatures or people with magic nearby, but there was a lot of magic. Wards, it looked like, along with the standard charms to keep the room a certain temperature, to ventilate the rooms and to keep out damp. Hearing no signs of anyone else in the room, Harry risked sitting up and looking around.

He was alone in spacious bedroom. The colour scheme seemed to be black and silver, with the occasional patch of pale gold. Despite the obviously high-quality bedroom, everything was functional, not ornamental. A room to be lived in, rather than admired but not touched. The placement of the furniture was the same as Grimmauld Place, albeit bigger and far more expensive in a transparent effort to make his surroundings seem familiar. There were two doors, both placed on the opposite wall. If this place was designed to look like his godfather's childhood home then the door to the left would lead to an en-suite bathroom and the door to the right would lead to the hallway. The double windows on the left were also in the same shape and place as Number Twelve, though bigger and better quality. Also, the entire room was cleaner than Harry thought Grimmauld Place had ever been.

All of this passed through Harry's head within the first three seconds of him sitting up and taking in the room he found himself in. In the ten seconds after that, he found himself with a lot of questions. 'Why the bloody hell would anyone go to the effort of sticking me in a larger, fancier version of Grimmauld Place?' 'Who could stick me in a larger version of Grimmauld Place, seeing as I can count on one hand the number of people who know what the inside of Grimmauld Place looks like?' and 'What's the last thing I remember?' being the most important of those questions.

"Bugger." Harry swore, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead out of habit as he remembered his conversation with Fate. Literally, Fate.

'An alternate universe, huh.' Harry thought. 'What was I thinking?"

Pushing aside the thought of his possible insanity, Harry climbed out of the bed and opened the wardrobe to the right of the bed, in the corner of his room. Just like in his world, the wardrobe had an undetectable extension charm on it, housing many clothes. From the high-quality but not over-the-top dress robes he'd been forced to acquire for the official reopening of the Ministry of Magic at the end of the war to the well-made battle robes he'd had since they stole basilisk skin from the Chamber of Secrets before their seventh year started. There was just one difference.

Everything was smaller. The clothes, they were all sized for a child, maybe a young teenager. Now Harry was paying attention, his whole body felt off, his center of balance slightly out of alignment. With a creeping sense of dread, Harry pulled out a set of robes and held them up against him.

They were the right size. Harry carefully hung the clothes back in the wardrobe and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He was a child again. He thought back to his conversation with Fate and his eyes narrowed when he remembered the oddly triumphant tone Fate had used when he'd agreed to be dragged to a different universe. At least now he knew what Fate wasn't telling him.

Deciding that it would be best to know exactly how much was different, Harry opened the door leading to what would be the bathroom in Grimmauld Place. Just like in the house he inherited from his godfather, there was a bathroom. It was bigger than Grimmauld and like his bedroom, it was mostly functional. Harry walked to the mirror and swore. "Shit."

He was definitely not the same age as before. He was probably about thirteen now, maybe fourteen. Staring into the mirror, he could see none of the war-scarred General he'd become, except in his eyes.

His appearance was much the same as it was before. His lips were a little fuller, and his cheekbones higher, more aristocratic. His eyes were a slightly different shape, but his pitch black hair and pale skin was the same as always, although the black locks appeared to be wavy rather than gravity-defying. He no longer bore any of the scars which marred his skin in his old universe, not even the famous lightning bolt, which had faded after Voldemort was dead.

Two things were very different from before, however. One was the inky-black tattoos that covered the right side of his neck and crept up onto his right cheek, and went down his right shoulder and arm, ending on his right hand.

The tattoos were, in fact, linked runes. In the war, when they had to send letters they sent them written in runes, which they'd encrypted. For instance, to encrypt the English alphabet, you could write out the all the letter in order, and then underneath that write them out backwards. The A would be Z, and B would be Y, and so one. So if someone wanted to write Harry with that specific encryption, then Harry would be spelt Sziib. The same principle was applied with runes. Then, so Voldemort couldn't try to decrypt their makeshift language, they placed the encrypted version of the runes under a modified Fidelius that allowed Harry to hide knowledge rather than location. They would have just placed the whole Runic language under Fidelius if they could, but the magic of the runes prevented them. They did not want to be hidden.

Harry traced the rune on the back of his right hand, tears in his eyes. Everything that was important to him was now inked on his skin, where it could never leave him. Where he could never forget.

Shaking himself slightly, he went back to examining the second thing that was very different. His eyes.

In the war, especially after Ron and several of the Weasleys were massacred in Diagon Alley, Harry's eyes, always a striking shade of emerald green, became piercing, unnervingly so. They seemed to shine with power, and many people who met Harry for the first time were intimidated by them. Hell, people who'd known Harry for years found them intimidating. Something told Harry that no matter how much his eyes had changed, people were still going to find them intimidating.

His eyes were like fire. In them he could see the protective flickering of a hearth, and the destructive power of an inferno. Even as he watched, the fire began to move restlessly, as though sensing his emotions. Harry took a shaky breath as he struggled to control the anger he felt.

All his life he'd been different. For the first ten years it was his relatives labelling him a freak. For the following fourteen years it was the scar on his forehead. In the latter years of the war, as well as the three years after that, it was his eyes. They unnerved most people. Frightened many people. Only a very, very few could see past the eyes, usually those who'd known him well before the war, and as time passed more and more of his school mates died. It was just something else that had isolated him.

Teddy hadn't been frightened by his eyes. He'd often changed his own features to match Harry's, till it looked like they were related, though he could never quite duplicate Harry's eyes exactly.

Shutting his eyes and slamming up his Occlumency shields, Harry pushed out thoughts of his godson and the isolation of his life. He was different, he would always be different. He'd just have to make friends with people who didn't care about any of that.

He quickly changed into the clean clothes, relishing the fact they weren't old rags like he'd been forced to wear as a child, or the second hand clothes they'd all had to make do with during the war. Forgoing the luxury of an actual shower in favour of exploring the house that he now found himself in, he exited the bathroom and then cautiously stepped out into the hallway, wand at the ready. Just because Fate sent him here, didn't mean that it was safe. Fate had proved to have a sick sense of humour concerning Harry.

As far as Harry could tell, the entire house - or perhaps Harry should say estate, because it was bloody _huge_ \- really was set out just like Grimmauld Place. There was a lot of extra rooms of course, since it was so much bigger, but everything was in roughly the same direction as before, just further. The library seemed to contain just about every book Harry had ever had so much as a passing interest in, as well as others that he had to admit looked interesting. The grounds, as far as he could tell, never seemed to end, unlike Grimmauld Place, and Harry couldn't help but think that it would be fun to run around in in his animagus form. He automatically squashed the idea of running around for fun, before remembering that he wasn't in the middle of a war anymore and it didn't matter what he did, as long as he didn't break any laws. He dwelled on the strangeness of that for a full five minutes before making a mental note to spend a little time having fun and continuing to explore.

The other thing that was different from Grimmauld Place was the training room. Harry had emptied out the basement at one point and practiced in there, but it wasn't the same as having a proper room, fitted with matts and assorted weaponry. This place had not only a proper training room with all of the extras that Harry had missed since the end of the war, but from what he saw, also contained a goblin-made illusion simulator, with full sensory input.

It was something the goblins had developed for the war. Goblins were good at illusion magic, it was part of their defences at Gringotts. Of course, anyone could walk through illusion magic if they knew it was there, but the Goblins had found a way to link the illusion directly to your nervous system, so that it felt real. It was used as a training exercise, the illusion would come up with a place, like the ruins of Hogwarts, stick loads of illusion Death Eaters in it, and then it would put you in the middle of it. As soon as you were killed or hurt seriously in the illusion, you were thrown out so you didn't have to feel the pain. It was banned after the war because you could theoretically put someone in an illusion where they were chained to a wall being tortured. It turned out that being tortured under Cruciatus in the illusion had the same effect as it did in the real world.

By the time Harry had looked over the grounds outside, established that the place he found himself in had the same layout as Grimmauld Place albeit being much bigger and better quality, gone 'wow' over the size of the library and gushed over the training room it was almost one o'clock and Harry was quite hungry. Making his way to the kitchen, (having everything in roughly the same place as at Number Twelve was handy when learning the layout) he was startled to find a letter addressed to him in an elegant script. Putting lunch out of his mind for the moment, he checked and double checked that there wasn't any harmful spells on the letter before opening it and settling down to read.

 _Harry Potter,_

 _I have taken care of any and all documentation you will need in this world. Your name, as of now, is Azrael Edward Hallows. You have a seat on the Wizengamot, and as far as the history books and everyone else is concerned, your family has always had a seat. I have also incorporated the Hallows name onto many family trees, so you may wish to take an inheritance test at Gringotts to see what else you may claim. You are an emancipated adult, capable of taking up your seat in the Wizengamot at any time you wish._

 _You are thirteen years old. You were born on 31st April 1981. You lived with your parents, Gabriel Hallows of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Hallows and Annmarie Hallows nee Jones, of the Minor house of Jones. They were potions masters, but never published any breakthroughs in the field and were notoriously paranoid about their work being stolen. They were neglectful and abusive. You were often kept in the cupboard under the stairs so they wouldn't have to keep an eye on you while developing dangerous experimental potions._

 _When you were four or five, you were made to complete a list of chores to 'earn your keep' and so they would have more time to develop potions. When the WCS (Wizarding Children Services) started looking into your case at the age of eleven you were moved to the upstairs bedroom instead. You attended Muggle primary school because it was free and your parents didn't care as it meant you spent more time outside of the house. You often stole books from the Hallows extensive library in order to learn more about the Wizarding World and seem to have a natural talent for Arithmancy - the creation and reverse engineering of spells._

 _You were held to a strict set of rules. Half an hour in the bathroom, morning and night. Eat what you're given, no less and definitely no more. Complete a certain amount of chores in a certain time frame. Don't interfere with the potions or the research for the potions in a way. If you failed to comply with any of the rules you were harshly punished, even if stealing food was necessary to your survival or you were late out of the bathroom by a minute._

 _You had a younger brother born on the 17th April 1983, full name Edward James Hallows. You protected him from the abuse as much as possible, and were seen as a parental figure by the child in question. You ensured he entered Muggle primary school and helped him control his Metamorph abilities._

 _On October the 31st 1981, Voldemort chose to attack Neville Longbottom rather than Harry Potter. He took the Lestranges with him. They tortured the Longbottoms into madness while Voldemort found Neville. He was being looked after by his great-uncle Algie. Voldemort demanded the Algie moved aside but he refused and died for Neville as Lily Potter died saving you. When Voldemort tried to kill Neville the curse backfired and Neville was left with a scar. Augusta Longbottom raised Neville after that, but Neville's childhood was considerably more pleasant as no-one questioned the fact that the boy-who-lived had magic. Augusta did not let Neville become arrogant despite the fame he wielded._

 _Sirius Black was never sent to Azkaban for betraying the Potters and because of that grew very close to Remus Lupin. They were bonded as life partners when Harry Potter was three. Peter Pettigrew disappeared not long after Voldemort's defeat and while at first his friends had assumed that he had been kidnapped and killed, closer inspection of Pettigrew's apartment revealed that Pettigrew was the traitor. He was never captured, and incidentally the Weasleys never had a pet rat._

 _The Lestranges and several other key Death Eaters evaded capture, but remained active. They were convinced Voldemort would return and reminded all of the Wizarding World of that with the attacks they carried out every Halloween thereafter. They were caught on October 31st 1988 after raiding the townhouse that the entire Hallows family was staying in._

 _The Death Eaters caught Gabriel and Annmarie Hallows working on a potion. Due to the delicate nature of the potion, the spells being cast made it explode, killed the Hallows parents instantly, along with the junior Death Eaters there. You saw the Death Eaters coming and left the house, but the explosion caught you and Teddy. The aim of the potion is unknown due to Gabriel and Annmarie's paranoia, but it caused the changes in your eyes. Before you could recover from the shock of the magical potion altering you, the Lestranges caught and tortured you and Teddy for some hours. You did not go insane because the torture was intermittent, allowing you time to recover so the torture would last longer, and because the Cruciatus curse was not the only one used. Several dark curses that inflicted severe physical harm was also used._

 _The Aurors eventually responded and the Lestranges were captured. You and your brother were taken to St Mungos but Teddy eventually died from various wounds and exposure to an unknown potion on Christmas Day. You survived, and have been self-taught at Hallows Manor for the last four and a half years while you adjust to the changes the potion made, the most obvious being your eyes. You have enrolled in Hogwarts for your third year of magical education as a way to re-enter society._

 _The Headmaster and the four Heads of the Houses will be arriving via Floo at ten o'clock August 17th to talk to you regarding your electives, your skill level in core subjects, and to Sort you._

 _You have an appointment at Gringotts to discuss your vaults, the payment for the Goblins warding Hallows Manor, and your share of the profits for the sensory illusion technology I gave them in your name on August 21st, at one o'clock._

 _Neville did not manage to free Dobby in this universe, so with his permission in both worlds, I sent the soul of your Dobby into the body of the Dobby of this world. They then merged and became one. Because the Dobby of your world was free, this world's Dobby became free as well and now wishes to bind himself to you. Just call for him when you're ready._

 _You can call Death and I at any time you please, but we ask you to do so only when necessary. Your eyes are actually the physical representation of your ability to call me, and the tattoos are the same for Death. No, Dumbledore won't figure it out._

 _Yours, Fate._

 _P.S, Contact lenses won't work. Sorry._

* * *

 **So, this is the second rewritten chapter. The third rewritten chapter has been posted.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	3. Chapter 3 - Purpose

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 3 - Purpose**

Over the next few days, Harry - or Azrael, as he is now known - settled in to life at the Manor. Dobby was extremely happy to be back with Azrael, and spent almost a day crying in happiness because he was bonded to the unusual wizard once again. Azrael spent most of his time in the training room. He had discovered, much to his dismay, that the muscle memory he had built up in his old world was gone. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that now he knew the moves, it would only be a matter of time until he could fight properly again. As it was, he spent at least four hours a day exhausting himself until he was satisfied that he could survive an ambush. It wasn't paranoia if there actually had been people out to get him, and those instincts would not be so easily shaken.

Once Azrael had accepted the oddities of this world and what it meant for him, he quickly settled into a routine. Running laps around the Manor in the morning and evening, two hours of physical training a day, both with Muggle martial arts and with spells, and lots of reading.

After the war, once Harry found it easier to isolate himself rather than overcome the fear his eyes caused, he found solace in books, much like Hermione had in her youth. Unlike her however, while he did enjoy reading factual books, especially about magic because it was his belief that the more he knew the better chance he had of winning whatever fight he got into, he also liked fiction. He most enjoyed Muggle classics, as they were generally set in a time different to his own, far removed from what he had lost.

When he was a child, he had never been able to read books. At first it was because there wasn't enough light in his cupboard to read them, and then it was because the Dursleys swamped him in chores so he didn't have time. Not to mention that if he ever got higher marks than Dudley then he was put in his cupboard without food. At Hogwarts Ron had never been motivated to learn and Hermione enjoyed being the cleverest, so he only usually only did enough to get the grades he wanted and left it at that. Now, finally, he was learning exactly why a lot of Ravenclaws could be seen reading at the dinner table. And the lunch table. And everywhere, really.

In the evenings, once he had to stop reading for fear of inducing a headache and after he'd had his run, he would spend time in the basement, which turned out to be a potions lab. Mostly he would brew healing potions, for broken bones and blood loss, even some skele-grow. Once he had stocked up his new infirmary, he took the time to make some of the more day-to-day concoctions - pepper up and instant hangover cure, for example. Not that he was supposed to be drinking, but he was technically an adult, so he could drink if he chose. Besides, who was going to tell him no? Dobby would look at him disapprovingly, but he would also make sure that the hangover cure was within reach in the morning. He understood why Azrael drank, after all. Even if he had died during what would have been Harry's seventh year, he still knew all of what happened during the war, somehow. Azrael didn't even bother questioning that, he just put it down to Fate. Sometimes it was nice to have someone to blame all the oddities of life on.

Speaking of Dobby, about a week after Azrael had arrived Dobby had looked exhausted. Azrael had to order Dobby to tell him what was wrong in the end, but finally Dobby caved. It turned out that the Manor was a bit big for Dobby to be cleaning on his own. Azrael cursed himself for not realizing it sooner and gave Dobby permission to hire or bond into Azrael's service any house-elf he wanted until he had all the help he needed. Dobby had been tearfully happy at that, but it took some reassuring to convince Dobby that while other house-elves would be in the Manor, it would always be Dobby Azrael called on, and Dobby who was his friend. Once Dobby understood that he wasn't being replaced, he was excited by the prospect of working with other house-elves again. House-elves need friends too, and Dobby hadn't acquired Azrael's antisocial habits.

Almost a month after Azrael and technically Dobby arrived in this world, and a little under a week until Azrael's appointment at the Manor with Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout and Flitwick, Azrael found himself wondering what he was going to do in this world. Go to Hogwarts, sure, because Fate had set it up and to be honest, what was the point of arguing with her? After that, though, what would his purpose be? In his old world, it had been to kill Voldemort, which he'd done but had also lost everything in the process. That wasn't to say that he wouldn't help kill Voldemort in this world, but he wasn't about to be a figurehead again. Not to mention that it would have to be Neville to strike the final blow. He might help kill Voldemort in this world, but it wasn't, wouldn't be, his purpose again.

So what would be his purpose? Getting decent scores on his O.W.L? He hadn't done a very good job of that the first time round. He sighed and gazed across the grounds. No, it wasn't big enough. He needed to do something big, something to help people, but not because he had to. Because he could, and because he was good at it. He wanted to have a choice. If he did something that caused his name to go down in the history books, he wanted it to be because he chose to. He didn't want to be famous for something that was never his choice. He already knew what that was like, and he didn't appreciate it.

What was he good at? Fighting, obviously, or he wouldn't be alive now. Flying too, they'd used brooms as a means to travel to and from raids, as it was less easily tracked than Floo, Portkey and Apparition. He was capable of pulling off some truly dangerous stunts on a broom now. He'd also learned how to feel magic, as a sort of hum in the back of his head. Whether the magic was from wards or the place itself, or highly magical creatures nearby, it didn't matter because he could still hear it humming a song of its own in his head, and if he paid enough attention to the song then he could identify the magic. The only reason he still used wandless magic detecting spells was because they were faster, and because he tended to get lost in a world of his own while feeling magic. Not a good thing if there actually was an attacker stalking you.

He'd managed to become quite the motivational speaker during the war, if only so people would be reminded of why it was important that they fight. There would have been a lot of desertions otherwise, especially on the days where there was no hope. In between convincing the vampires and werewolves not to fight with Voldemort and convincing the goblins to help them he had even learned to be a half-decent politician. Draco claimed that it was his Slytherin side showing through, and then waxed poetic about how Harry would be dead without that little bit of Slytherin brain. Azrael privately agreed, though he never admitted it to his blonde lieutenant.

Politics. Now there was a field Azrael knew relatively little about. What politics he did know revolved around other races, since the Wizengamot had been in Voldemort's pocket since the beginning and trying to gain allies there was suicide. Azrael thought back to the changes that had occurred after the Wizarding War. It had been magnificent, Azrael remembered. The feeling of change in the air, and for the Order, hope of a better future. Given the nature of wizards to sit by and ignore any changes, Azrael doubted that the same thing would happen again without a war to rip their world apart, but that didn't mean he couldn't try. If nothing else, it would be a hell of a challenge.

Without the offer of Wizengamot seats to dangle in front of the magical races, however, it would be harder to convince them to work with him and by extension, the Ministry. Not that he blamed them. Several lifetimes of oppression would not be forgotten easily. He'd have to be on good terms with a lot of races, and he'd have to know the customs of all of them. He grinned, and headed off to the library. Time to start brushing up on his Gobbledygook.

The goblins were probably the most influential magical race, since if they shut their doors and refused to trade the Wizarding economy would collapse. Azrael had worked closely with Goblins in his old world, their aims regarding Voldemort coinciding with his own. He'd learned all the main greetings in Gobbledygook and he'd also learned that they were far more attuned to Greater Magics than human Wizards.

The average goblin couldn't cast spells, but all goblins could sense the power of the earth, what wizards called ley lines. This meant they were also attuned to powers related to the earth. Or Powers, rather, as in the governing beings of the Earth, pure magic given form with a purpose. Powers like Death, Fate, Destiny and Luck. Not long after the war ended Harry had learned - or been allowed to learn, more accurately - that although Gringotts had been concerned with Voldemort's dominion over the Wizarding World, the main reason they had allied themselves with him was because they could feel Fate's magic working around him. Even then, they were not certain as to weather they did the right thing in helping him, until Fate's magic cleared from around him for just an instant, just long enough for the Goblins to see that he was also Master of Death.

Azrael idly wondered if they would be able to tell he was unusual now that he wasn't Master of Death. Fate had said that the eyes and the tattoos were symbols of his ability to call Fate and Death, respectively, so the goblins would probably know that something was off. What he wanted to know was if that would hinder or help him in his mission to campaign for equal rights.

Azrael gave a mental start at how much he sounded like Hermione about house-elves, and made a mental note to not force his opinions on other races. If house-elves wanted to stay enslaved, they could. He would just have to pass laws about abusing them.

That was how he spent the next week. Learning about the traditions and politics of various races, focusing mainly on the Wizengamot and the Goblins. He spent no small number of hours slogging through various books on the law of the Wizengamot, finding loopholes and thinking up strategies for various situations. He found that it was in many ways like fighting a war, except that there was no weapons, just words. He actually found it fun to plan for every situation, knowing that if he lost nobody would die. It was quite refreshing. Finally, though, the day to meet with Headmaster Dumbledore had arrived.

He'd had a complicated relationship with the old man. So much of the hardship in Harry's life had been his fault, the Dursleys, Sirius's death albeit indirectly, the hardships he had faced even inside the school. Yet, Dumbledore had lead the light for many years, and Azrael knew that Dumbledore had almost as hard a time leading as him. No matter the decisions Dumbledore had made regarding Harry, he did try to do what was right. Part of it was naiveté, believing the Dursleys would care for him, and part of it was the sacrifices he had been forced to make. Either way, after seeing first-hand how hard making decisions in the middle of a war could be, Azrael couldn't help but respect him, just a little.

It would be easier to dislike Dumbledore for what the Headmaster had put him through if Azrael couldn't understand and sometimes even agree with the decisions Dumbledore made. If he were in Dumbledore's place he probably would have placed Harry with the Dursleys as well. He would also have checked up on Harry to make sure the Dursleys weren't abusing him. Azrael just couldn't understand Dumbledore's never-ending well of belief in the better side of human nature. Azrael had lost faith in humanity when Cedric was killed, and the war stripped any remaining notions of honour and kindness overcoming greed and hatred. Teddy dying had not only ensured that any trace of forgiveness in himself was erased, but that he was also quite ruthless. That had only contributed to people's fear of him when the War ended.

Azrael's own pessimism regarding human nature aside, he did not hate Dumbledore. He did not even particularly dislike Dumbledore. Of course, it helped that Dumbledore had left him specific memories in his pensive, memories regarding Harry. It was clear that the memories depicted all of the Headmaster's perceived guilt towards Harry, how his actions had stolen the last Potter's childhood. It was painfully obvious that the man carried a boatload of guilt regarding him.

Azrael had prepared himself as much as he could to meet people that he had known in a different world, under a different name. His Occlumency shields were fully up, though he had carefully structured the outside of his mental shields to make it look like he was only taught a little actual Occlumency, and his naturally introverted state caused his shields to be more developed than was normal.

He had no doubt that the Headmaster and the Heads of the Houses had researched his history, as they did for all unusual students. The letter from Fate had said that he was going to Hogwarts to re-integrate with society after the attack that indirectly caused his eyes to be changed, and there was no way that they would be completely unaware of the history Fate set up for him. As Headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot Dumbledore had the authority to pull any Auror records without justification if he wanted. Azrael had no doubt that he had already done so.

Of course, this meant that Azrael should expect Dumbledore to guess at the 'torture' he had endured that night. Dumbledore was clever enough to notice the discrepancy between the time the attack was reported and the time the Aurors arrived, and despite his belief that everyone deserved a second chance, Dumbledore was not stupid enough to deceive himself about Death Eater activities. Azrael just hoped he didn't try to do anything to 'help' him. Like Dobby, Dumbledore had a track record of hurting those he was trying to help.

Azrael sat in his study with several books on Arithmancy scattered around him, writing in a journal. This journal was not for recording events and feelings, however, but his notes on Arithmancy. During the war, he filled many journals with his notes on spells discovered, on strategies and wards, all spelled so only he could read them. Now those journals resided here, under lock and key in the library, and Azrael started a new one on Arithmancy.

Arithmancy had become his second goal. He'd never learned much about it but it had been invaluable in creating new spells during the war, and he had decided that he was going to learn to make and adjust spells the way Hermione had. It was a useful skill and based on maths, which Azrael found easy. It would be a while until he would know enough to start on his first goal, so Arithmancy would do until then.

At that moment Dobby popped in. "Visitors in the Floo room, Master Azrael." He said excitedly.

"Show them to the sitting room and tell them I'll be down in a minute." Azrael said, closing the journal gently and standing up. He was wearing Muggle clothes, a white dress shirt and black trousers not unlike the ones worn to school, with black shoes. His sleeves were rolled up to avoid getting ink stains on them, which exposed the part of his tattoo on his arm. He was calm and his eyes reflected that, flickering gently, like a candle. His hair, being wavy instead of gravity-defying now, tended to stay down if he brushed it enough, which he had. Once he made sure nothing else was out of place, he went to leave the room, but was stopped by Dobby.

"Master Azrael sir, Professor Dumbly sir said not to trouble you with going to the sitting room, that they would come to you." Dobby said tearfully, upset at the thought of failing Azrael.

"That's alright, Dobby. Do they know the way?" Azrael asked gently. Dobby nodded. "Professor Dumbly sir used point me spell."

Azrael smiled slightly, but it was a little stiff with annoyance. "Could you ask one of the other house-elves to guide them here please? And could you also bring up chairs for our guests?" Dobby nodded happily and popped away. Before long, five chairs appeared in the room. Azrael stared out of the window unseeingly.

What had made Dumbledore try to barge in like this? It was rude to invite yourself into someone else's home, and that was essentially what he'd done. Chances were, he either suspected Azrael of something or thought he was doing Azrael a favour. Azrael didn't think he'd done anything suspicious, so it was probably the latter.

A knock on the door jolted Azrael out of his thoughts. Calling out for them to come in, Azrael turned to face the door as it opened, admitting the people who had taught him for six years in a different world. He dismissed the house-elf, Tilly, with a kind smile, and met Dumbledore's twinkling gaze for the first time in years.

* * *

 **So, next chapter is going to be an interesting one. Sorry for stopping it here, but I've reached three thousand words. You'll just have to wait a little longer.**

 **Thank you to everybody who has reviewed this story. Seriously, if it weren't for you, I couldn't be bothered.**

 **Finally, if you love me, or the story, please review. Please. I'm begging here. Just two or three words, you can review even if you don't have an account. Tell me what you liked and what you didn't. Please?**

 **Till next time, Shib. :)**


	4. Chapter 4 - Old Faces, New People

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 4 - Old Faces, New People**

Those damnably twinkly eyes stared at him over half-moon glasses as the Headmaster of Hogwarts took his tea.

Once Dumbledore had introduced himself and his staff, they'd all taken seats and Azrael had politely asked Dobby to bring up some refreshments for them. Not long after that Dumbledore had begun a staring contest with Azrael, not expecting the now-thirteen year old to hold that gaze calmly. What made Dumbledore's eyes dim a little was when he had used a passive Legilimency scan - something designed to only pick up thoughts and feelings that the mind naturally broadcast, and therefore were not secrets - and seemingly found a mind well protected from telepathic attack thanks to a little training and a large amount of trauma and introverted habits. Azrael felt the scan, saw the eyes dim, and immediately guessed what Dumbledore deduced, and why it had upset him.

The other teachers sat silently, bewildered at the non-verbal exchange between the two. Well, McGonagall and Sprout were bewildered. Flitwick understood that Dumbledore was using Legilimency and that the new student presumably knew what Dumbledore was doing, because otherwise he would have looked away. Snape understood the most, recognising the way the two were measuring one another as something Slytherins did constantly, to enemies and allies alike. Neither Dumbledore nor the boy had an opinion on the other, so they were gathering information, via Legilimency in this case. Snape's gaze sharpened as he took in the boy. He was already displaying some Slytherin traits. If the boy did go to his house, it would be best to know as much about him as possible.

When McGonagall cleared her throat, loudly, Dumbledore broke the contest. "Well, Mr Hallows, straight down to business shall we? We have your previous scores here, as marked by the Ministry, but we would like to test your basic knowledge on the core subjects to be sure that you will not start off behind your classmates in terms of knowledge."

Azrael nodded, outwardly unperturbed by the news that he would be tested to see if he were up to standards while inside he was laughing. He'd already completed his schooling, technically. If he wasn't up to standards then it was their fault. After all, they were the ones who taught him.

McGonagall started, with Transfiguration. Once he'd answered all her questions and demonstrated a couple of basic transfigurations, he was tested on Charms by Flitwick. After that it was Herbology by Sprout, then Potions by Snape.

Unlike the others, Snape didn't just ask him the questions he should know the answer to if he was up to standard in his schooling. The Potions Master had noticed the ease with which Azrael had answered all the questions posed to him, and began to ask more difficult questions, to the silent disapproval of the other teachers.

Azrael started pretending to not know the answers once they had almost reached the end of the third-year curriculum. He did, however, allow himself to answer when Snape asked him a relatively easy question that had so many different answers the Potions Master did not expect him to be able to remember them all.

"List the different ingredients capable of being mixed with aconite in a potion without the acidic side-effects changing the end result."

Snape had looked shocked - or as shocked as he ever did - when Azrael began listing them all, one by one. Azrael stopped when Dumbledore leaned forward and cleared his throat. "How do you know that, Mr, Hallows?" He asked politely, barely hiding his own surprise.

Azrael blinked as though Dumbledore had asked a question that had a really obvious answer. "I memorised it."

"Out of what book? As far as I know no book has them all listed like that." Snape said carefully, eyes watching, judging the new student.

Azrael looked at them and wondered how to explain it. "I'll show you." He decided instead. "Dobby."

"Yes Master Azrael sir?" Dobby asked, appearing with a pop.

"Could you please fetch the journals from my library marked 1 and 2 in the colours black, blue, green, yellow, red and grey?" Azrael asked kindly.

"Yes Master Azrael sir." Dobby said happily and popped away, only to be back moments later with the requested journals. He bowed before popping out again.

In his old world, during and later after the war, he had written everything he knew about magic into his journals, in every branch of magic from the basics upwards. In those journals he'd condensed the knowledge from three or more books on the subject, putting it in a far more succinct manner. It was written as a recap, rather than a guide. It was still pretty detailed.

Azrael picked out a black journal marked with a 2 from the others and leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and then handed it to Snape. The Potions Masters eyebrow shot up at what he saw. "What am I looking at?"

Azrael cleared his throat a little. "A table of potions ingredients detailing the ingredient, a short description of what the ingredient should look like, what potions that ingredient is commonly used for, and how that ingredient reacts to others. The text at the bottom lists which books I found the relevant information from."

Snape flipped through the book carefully, taking in the careful writing and painstaking notes. Azrael separated the other journals by colour and passed them out to the other teachers. Yellow went to Sprout, green to McGonagall, blue to Flitwick, black to Snape and the grey and red ones went towards Dumbledore.

"This is so detailed." Sprout said. "It has drawings of what the plants should look like in different conditions as well as descriptions."

"The same is true of these." Flitwick said, speed-reading Azrael's notes on Charms. "It's very detailed and in depth."

"It's a shame you haven't published these, Mr Hallows." Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling brightly. "I think my staff's choice of reading material for their first and second year classes would be fairly obvious if you did."

Azrael blinked, truly startled. "These? You'd teach out of these? They're only a few notes."

"More than a few, Mr Hallows." McGonagall said sternly. "I do believe that the entire curriculum for the first years is in this first book. That's quite an achievement."

"Indeed." Dumbledore said, flicking through the History of Magic and DADA journals that he had been given. "I believe that these journals demonstrate deep enough understanding in all of your core subjects for me to skip testing you in History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Quite." Flitwick murmured, absorbed in the journal.

"Have you decided on your electives?" McGonagall asked briskly, gently placing the Transfiguration journals back on the desk.

"Ancient Runes and Arithmancy." Azrael replied.

"Very well then." McGonagall wrote something on a piece of paper. "Here is a list of school rules. You are expected to read it before you arrive at Hogwarts. As you are an emancipated adult, you do have rights that others do not, but we ask you not to abuse those rights. You are allowed off the school grounds at any time you chose, provided you do not miss lessons without due cause. Curfew does not apply to you. As an adult you are permitted," here she looked strongly disapproving, "to enter the Forbidden Forest. We urge you to be careful there, as it can be dangerous."

Dumbledore withdrew something old and ragged from his pocket, unravelling it until Azrael could see that it was, in fact, the Sorting Hat. "Now that the unpleasant part is behind us, let us more onto happier matters. This is the Sorting Hat, it will place you in your house at Hogwarts. Are you aware of the houses and what they stand for?"

Azrael nodded.

"Well then, let us not delay." Dumbledore flicked his wand and the Hat zoomed up onto Azrael's head. Azrael tensed, fighting his instinct to rip the thing off and set fire to it. Things flying towards him usually ended up hurting him.

 _"Well, well, Mr Hallows, what have we here?"_ The Hat spoke in Azrael's mind, the War General's Occlumency not even giving the ancient artefact pause.

* * *

Dumbledore flicked up a small one-way silencing ward around them as he turned to his colleagues. "First impressions?" He asked, eyes twinkling forcefully.

"He's intelligent." Flitwick said, having abandoned the Charms journals to peruse the journals about other subjects. "He could easily be a Ravenclaw if he wished."

Snape snorted. "Ravenclaws aren't the only intelligent ones. The way you and he evaluated one another at the beginning was rather Slytherin." He addressed the Headmaster.

"And yet, the courage necessary to survive after suffering as he has is so Gryffindor." Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "It will be an interesting Sorting, I think."

"It's hard to imagine that such a polite young man was a victim of the Halloween raids." Sprout said sadly.

"What exactly happened that night, Albus? We know that his parents and brother were killed on Halloween almost five years ago, but what happened to him? No Death Eater would have simply allowed him to walk away." McGonagall asked.

"I also find myself curious." Snape said. "Maybe he is so determined to learn because he wishes to be able to defend himself?"

Dumbledore sighed. "I do not know why he is so determined to learn. I do, however, know some details behind the attack which occurred on that Halloween."

Flitwick put the journal aside and focused his attention on the Headmaster.

"The Death Eaters apparated in as dark fell, as per usual. They stormed the house, knowing that wizards were living there, and found Mr and Mrs Hallows first, working on an experimental potion the details of which only they knew. They were killed relatively quickly but the potion was evidently in a delicate stage and soon exploded."

Snape breathed in sharply. "His eyes..."

Dumbledore nodded, his eyes absent of their usual twinkle. "Yes, Severus, the potion that exploded is what had an effect on Mr Hallows' eyes. Now, after that point events get a little sketchy. It is clear that Mr Hallows was aware of the Death Eaters and what that most likely meant for his family, even at the age of eight. He fetched his younger brother Edward Hallows and made an attempt to leave the house. They succeeded, but were unable to get far enough away from the potion to be safe when it exploded. The magic in the potion was released via the explosion and it altered both Azrael and Edward Hallows in unforeseen ways. Meanwhile inside the house the junior Death Eaters were killed in the explosion while the members of the Inner Circle who were present - the Lestranges - took shelter behind an exceptionally powerful conjured shield. Thinking their job was done, the Death Eaters left, -"

"Only to find the Hallows brothers outside, struggling to recuperate from the Potions explosion." Flitwick breathed. Dumbledore nodded.

"There are no witnesses to what happened next, aside from Mr Hallows himself, but it was several hours before the Aurors could respond and during that time the Cruciatus curse and a number of other Dark curses designed to inflict pain upon another were used on both of the Hallows brothers. Patient confidentiality means that I have no right to see Mr Hallows medical records, but as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot I was part of the Lestranges trial. Edward Hallows' medical records were presented as evidence to the court." Dumbledore shuddered. "It might have been kinder if the brothers had been at Voldemort's mercy, rather than the Lestranges. He, at least, would only use the Cruciatus curse as a method of inflicting pain, and he always made sure to kill them."

"Was it really so bad that death would have been a kindness?" McGonagall asked.

"Voldemort tortured people." Snape said grimly. "Bellatrix likes to play games while doing it. I know I'd rather be tortured by Voldemort instead of Bellatrix."

"Well then," The Hat said, drawing their attention to the new student. "If you've made your choice, it had better be ..."

* * *

 _"If you tell anyone anything I don't want everyone to know, I will find a way to burn you. Or wash you."_ Azrael said calmly to the Hat after it's traditional greeting, before it could wax poetic about how different he was. It wasn't that he begrudged the Hat it's dramatics - only being needed once a year for a thousand years must be pretty boring - but he wanted to make his point before the Hat blurted out something it shouldn't.

 _"Ha. Indeed, Mr Hallows. With the ambition to threaten a centuries-old powerful magical artefact, you'd make a good Slytherin, Mr Hallows."_

 _"So you've said."_ Azrael returned blandly. _"You better not put me there."_

 _"Do you still bear hatred towards the house of Snakes, Mr Hallows ... Mr Potter?"_ The Hat said curiously.

 _"You know very well I do not."_ Azrael said, mildly offended. _"I know a few Slytherins I'd trust with my life. I simply do not wish to be caught up in ridiculous house feuds."_

 _"You know that means you will not be in Gryffindor either, Mr Potter?"_ The Hat asked slyly. _"I would not have thought you to abandon your housemates so quickly."_

 _"I'm not abandoning anyone, they don't even know me!"_ Azrael said, now truly offended. _"Gryffindor and Slytherin are always at each others throats, I've no desire to be a part of that again. I'm twenty-four years old, I have no desire to act like an immature, foolish child who is uncaring of the consequences his actions can have."_

There was a small silence before the Hat spoke again. _"If not Gryffindor or Slytherin, then where would you go?"_

 _"Ravenclaw."_ Azrael said simply.

 _"Hmm, a life of learning would suit the path you have chosen and you have the mind for it, as well ... you aren't going to let me put you in Slytherin, are you? I think you would benefit from a life in the snakes' den ... it would teach you politics better than books ever could, for a start."_

 _"I'm not going to Slytherin."_ Azrael said immediately. _"But why shouldn't I be involved in their politics despite that?"_

 _"Oh dear,"_ the Hat sighed. _"You know, I almost feel sorry for them."_

Azrael grinned. _"On the subject of being sorry, you aren't going to mention my unusual history to anyone, right? Because bad things happen to tattle tales, and I'd be absolutely devastated if something happened to you."_

The Hat sighed again. _"Fear not, General Potter. Your secret lies safe with me, till the end of your days."_

 _"Good."_ Azrael said, with no small amount of satisfaction.

 _"Just out of interest, what would you have done to me if I had spilled your secret?"_ The Sorting Hat asked.

 _"I would've set fire to you and found a way to implicate Fawkes."_ Azrael said, letting a dozen possible ways to achieve that play out in his mind.

 _"So Slytherin."_ The Hat thought wistfully. Out loud, it said, "Well then, if you've made your choice, it'd better be ... RAVENCLAW!"

Azrael reached up and pulled the Hat off. "Well then, that settles that." Dumbledore said. "Do you have any other questions?"

Azrael shook his head.

"In that case, I believe it is time for us to take our leave." Dumbledore stood. "We'll owl you the list of school supplies needed within the next couple of days. The train leaves Kings Cross Station at eleven o'clock o September the 1st, instructions on how to get to the platform are in the rulebook Professor McGonagall gave you."

The teachers all stood, Azrael leading them to the Floo in the lobby. "Well Mr Hallows, it's been a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you on the first." Dumbledore said, taking a pinch of Floo powder and throwing it in the flames. The other teachers soon followed, and Azrael was alone again. Deflating a little, he rubbed his hands over his face. It was hard to pretend that he didn't know them, that he hadn't seen them die. He wondered vaguely what it was going to be like at Hogwarts, before pushing his mind onto happier matters. He now had something else to take to Gringotts. He had to see about getting those journals published.

* * *

 **Special thanks to lizzypotterfan, sunsethill and LicaSchmidt for not only reviewing, but saying what they did and didn't like.**

 **Thanks to everyone who has reviewed (You know who you are) because reviews definitely motivate me to do better, and that's something I really want to do.**

 **Till next time, Shib. :)**


	5. Chapter 5 - Goblins

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 5 - Goblins**

Three days later, Azrael woke up screaming in the early hours of the morning. Seeing familiar faces that didn't know him had broken something inside the General; his nightmares had become worse, and Dreamless Sleep had stopped being effective years before. At the head of an army, he had learned to suppress those emotions, and continued to do so at Grimmauld Place. Now, it seemed his subconscious wasn't having any of it, and he wasn't having any sleep.

Fed up with trying and failing to sleep, Azrael climbed out of bed and pulled pair of trousers on, stumbling into the bathroom. He blinked rapidly as the light turned on and his eyes tried to adjust to the light change.

Now that he'd gained a lot of the muscle he'd lost arriving here, Azrael definitely looked less like skin and bones and more like a normal person his age. Thankfully, his muscles were less bulky and more toned, since Azrael's fighting style relied more on skill than brute force. His skin, while still pale, no longer had an unhealthy cast, and as long as he didn't take off his shirt in public, no-one would see the majority of his scars.

Azrael didn't have nearly as many scars as he used to - as far as he could tell, he only had one scar from each battle and skirmish he had taken part in and they were thankfully mostly concentrated on his chest and back, making it far easier to hide - but even the scars he did still have would give most people pause, especially those that didn't know about his fabricated past.

After he'd had a shower to wash away the remnants of his nightmare, Azrael made his way down to his training room, promptly setting the illusions to attack and then blasting them to pieces with his magic, with and without a wand. A problem made itself painfully obvious as he stood over the debris of his practice, however, and Azrael could have kicked himself for not realizing sooner that no home-schooled third year would be able to do this, no matter how intelligent or how much effort has been put into practising. It simply wasn't possible, as a child's magical core hadn't finished developing yet. Unless Azrael wanted to be hailed as the new Dumbledore, (which he really didn't) he was going to have to tone down his magic a lot.

Scowling, Azrael got ready for the day, eating as much as he could when Dobby brought him breakfast. He was sat in his study reading past editions of the Daily Prophet when a Hogwarts owl came swooping in through the window with the promised letter listing the things he would need for his third year. He skimmed the text and finding nothing out of the ordinary, he tossed it on the desk. He might as well do shopping tomorrow, when he went to Gringotts. He didn't particularly wish to be stared at any more than necessary. Until then, he might as well work on a solution for his magical core problem.

The next day, Azrael dressed carefully in some of the less formal - and incidentally less restrictive, if he had to move fast - but still expensive robes. If he was going to be a political force, then he needed to look the part. It wasn't true that the clothes made the man, but they certainly reflected the man. If you showed up at the Wizengamot poorly dressed, no-one would respect you, and at this time of year a lot of parents, pureblood and otherwise, would be at Diagon Alley.

After bidding Dobby a kind goodbye, Azrael Flooed into the Leaky Caldron. Sometime during the war when he'd been Flooing from safe house to safe house he'd got the hang of not stumbling out of the fireplace, and that grace served him well now.

Azrael ignored the sudden silence and hushed whispers that followed his appearance and walked calmly to the bar, projecting understated confidence. "Hello, Tom." Azrael greeted. "Could you open the way to Diagon Alley for me? I'd do it myself, but my wand had an unfortunate accident and I am in need of a new one, as well as supplies for the coming year at Hogwarts."

Tom smiled. "It would be my pleasure, Mr Hallows. Starting first year are you?"

Azrael smiled back at the barman. He liked Tom, who was a good man through and through. "Third year actually. I've been home-schooled for a while and done quite a bit of self-study to pass the time as well. Some teachers from Hogwarts already dropped by to make sure I was able to keep up with my new yearmates."

Tom placed the pitcher he was holding down and pulled out his wand. "Well it's good to hear you're getting back on your own two feet again, Mr Hallows. If you'll follow me, I'll just let you through."

Azrael watched Tom walk back inside the pub once the barman had opened the Alley and made it clear that Azrael could come to him if the new Hogwarts student needed anything. Tom was a good man. In the war, he'd passed on any information he'd heard about Voldemort's plans. After all, Death Eaters get drunk too, and barmen hear all the rumours. Many an ambush had been thwarted because of Tom. Voldemort went mad trying to figure out who was betraying him; he never realised there were other ways to get men to talk.

Shaking away all thoughts of the war, Azrael remembered his resolution to have more fun and decided to enjoy the day as much as he could when everyone was staring and pointing at him. At least he had practise ignoring it.

Making his way down the main street, watching people act with a carefree attitude that he hadn't seen in years, Azrael headed towards Gringotts. He had an appointment with the goblins.

One thing that seemed to be the same in both worlds was the rather interesting rhyme on the door of the bank.

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed  
Of what awaits the sin of greed.  
For those who take but do not earn,  
_ _Must pay most dearly in their turn.  
_ _So if you seek beneath our floors,  
_ _A treasure that was never yours,  
_ _Thief, you have been warned, beware  
_ _Of finding more than treasure there._

Stepping into the lobby, Azrael looked around cataloguing any differences from his own world. As far as he could tell, nothing major had changed. The counters were arranged a little differently, and he didn't recognise all the goblins working the tills, but other than that, almost everything appeared to be the same.

Of course, every goblin in the lobby turning to stare at him as he entered was one of the differences. Azrael found himself wondering weather having Fate and Death's mark on him would be more trouble than it was worth. Then he remembered that it was Fate he was talking about, and decided that it was definitely more trouble than it was worth.

After a few seconds the goblins all turned back to what they were doing before Azrael entered, refusing to answer questions about what distracted them. Azrael waited patiently where he was; enemies or allies, they had acknowledged him when he entered. That made the next move their responsibility, and moving to either leave or join a queue would insult them.

Once the crowds of wizards lost interest in finding whatever had interested the goblins so, a lone goblin guard weaved his way through the crowd to Azrael. **"Follow me please, Change-Bringer."** The guard murmured respectfully in Gobbledygook, before spinning smartly on his heel and leading Azrael towards the offices.

 **"Where are we headed, Honourable Defender of your clan?"** Azrael asked politely once they were out of the lobby and away from prying ears.

 **"To Account Manager Griphook of the Hallows estate, vault and patents, appointed not long before your arrival in the ..."** The guard hesitated, sneaking a sidelong look at Azrael. **"... area."**

Azrael nodded in acceptance. He recognised the name Griphook, he was a goblin who had been captured by Voldemort and later rescued by Azrael when he was seventeen. Voldemort had wanted to know about Gringotts, and how to destroy it, but he had begun to believe his own stories about goblins being lesser. Voldemort underestimated a goblin's - any goblin's - devotion to their clan. A goblin betraying their kin willingly was reason enough to wipe out any adult of that family line, while the child would be moved to a suitable home and once they came of age would have to prove their loyalty to the clan. A goblin betraying kin under torture would often be killed, but their family would be left alone and no stain would mark their honour. A goblin withstanding torture for their clan would receive the highest of honours, weather they survived or not.

Griphook had later been a major factor in convincing the goblins to help fight Voldemort, as well as living proof that Voldemort wouldn't spare Gringotts. Azrael was reasonably certain that they would've helped eventually anyway, but that would have taken longer and more people would've died, so Azrael was still grateful.

They reached a door which, like all the doors in this area, instead of having names on the door had the crest of the family or families relevant. At eye level was Griphook's family crest, Azrael recognised, and below that was the crest or crests of the families that Griphook was Account Manager for. At the moment there was only one crest on Griphook's door which Azrael assumed was the Hallows crest, given what he'd been told by the guard. Further down was traditionally a small image representing individuals, usually Muggleborns or wizards opening a new account completely separate from their old one. Griphook's door had several of these smaller images.

The guard leading Azrael knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. Griphook was seated behind a desk. The office was sparse, not designed to show status, but to persuade visitors get to the point by making them feel uncomfortable. Azrael had to hide a smile; Griphook never did like having to listen to people prattle on, and that apparently hadn't changed.

The guard - Azrael really had to get his name, he couldn't just keep thinking of him as the guard - motioned for Azrael to seat in the seat opposite Griphook's desk and quietly left the room, presumably stationing himself outside the door to prevent interruptions as per Gringotts policy regarding appointments.

 **"How am I to help you today, Account Holder?"** Griphook began.

 **"I am unaware of the state of my current finances and properties, Account Manager. Please tell me how much money I have, and about any properties I own."** Azrael formally requested.

 **"You have almost seventeen million Galleons in your vault, and the artefacts in your vault are estimated to be worth a further two million. You have two properties. There is the smaller house you lived in as a child as well as the land it was built on although the house is currently in a state of extreme disrepair. The other one is Hallows Manor, which I believe you are currently residing in."**

Azrael nodded thoughtfully. **"I am told I own the patent for the illusion technology used in Hallows Manor?"**

 **"You do. Gringotts wishes to negotiate terms on which to use the technology."** Griphook said.

 **"I'll sell Gringotts the patent in return for a percentage of the profits."** Azrael said. The bank wouldn't get a better deal than that.

Griphook tilted his head to the side. **"Gringotts offers you five percent of the profit."**

 **"Fifty percent."** Azrael said flatly. In truth, he couldn't care less about the money, but it was important to goblins and they would see him as weak if he didn't fight for every Knut.

 **"Fifteen."** Griphook said.

Azrael snorted. **"Forty."**

 **"Twenty."** Griphook's eyes narrowed as though he was willing Azrael to agree.

 **"Thirty-five."** Azrael made another counteroffer.

 **"Twenty-five."** Azrael could tell by the determined look in Griphook's eye that he wouldn't go any higher and decided that he'd bargained enough to convince the goblin that he knew what he was doing.

 **"Twenty-five percent, done."** Azrael accepted Griphook's offer. **"And as a gesture of good faith, I'll tell you that where I came from, the Ministry placed restrictions on this technology because holding a Cruciatus in the illusionary world will have the same effect as in the real world. I'm sure that with forewarning, though, you can think of a way around this."** Azrael said. That should soothe any lost pride.

Griphook didn't outwardly show his surprise at Azrael's gesture, but Azrael knew he was surprised nevertheless. **"Gringotts thanks you for your warning."** The goblin said slowly. **"Let me send for the contract so we may conclude this item of business."**

Azrael inclined his head in agreement but said nothing. Griphook pulled a piece of parchment from his desk and wrote a request on it, then placed it in a filing cabinet behind him which Azrael recognised as a variation on a vanishing cabinet - you place an item in one cabinet and it will appear in the other. After a few minutes the cabinet let out a chime and Griphook opened it, pulling out a newly-written contract detailing the terms they had already agreed to. Griphook read it over once before signing and passing it onto Azrael.

Reading it through carefully, Azrael had no problems with what they had written. The goblins had added a stipulation about Azrael's name being attached to the technology - they didn't want him to be able to claim to have anything to do with it, ever - but since that actually benefitted Azrael, he simply raised an eyebrow at Griphook so the goblin would know that he'd noticed and signed anyway.

Griphook took the contract from him almost reverently and placed it back in the cabinet, before seating himself again and facing Azrael. **"Is there anything else you require, Change-Bringer?"** Griphook's attitude towards him appeared to have changed from 'I think you're probably an idiot like every other wizard I've ever met' to 'You're not so bad ... I guess'.

Azrael tilted his head a little. **"Why do you call me Change-Bringer?"** He asked curiously.

 **"You bear the Mark of not one but two Greater Powers. That always means interesting times are coming, especially when your Marks are of those two Greater Powers."** Griphook explained.

Azrael accepted his answer and considered what else he needed. **"My share of the profits from the illusion technology."** He said. **"How much do you estimate I will get and when?"**

Griphook stared off into the distance, considering. **"I estimate you will receive anything from a few hundred Galleons to several thousand by the end of this year. The following year should gain even more, anything from a few thousand to a million. It depends on how useful the Purebloods and major corporations find it, since they're the ones with the money."**

Azrael nodded, thinking. **"I'd like you to open a new account which can't be traced to me and place half a million Galleons in it. Then I want all of my money from the illusion technology placed in that account rather than the Hallows one. Finally, I want you to find a reasonably priced building that can house approximately fifty people in the middle of nowhere, room for them to run around and work off energy, single bedrooms, a bathroom and kitchen shared between every five people, with a basement containing fifty reinforced cages capable of holding a werewolf, along with weekly deliveries of food, cleaners visiting every month as far from the full moon as possible and, if you can get it, enough Wolfsbane to keep them all in their right mind. Call it the Alliance Foundation and make it clear that we accept donations but it isn't required. Notify me when the balance in the Alliance Foundation vault gets below ten thousand Galleons or the building becomes full. Also, I'd like you to look into possible protections for the place; if and when Voldemort comes back, I don't want him to be able to simply walk in there and demand they join him or die."**

Griphook stared at him for a moment, his features not betraying a hint of his emotions but his stillness betraying his shock. **"Very well. Should we send out a notification to the Daily Prophet?"**

It was hard to tell, but Azrael thought Griphook was being sarcastic. **"No, not yet. That would make too many people who dislike werewolves aware of it. I assume you can spread it though the werewolf community once the building is ready?"** Griphook nodded. **"Very well then. Could you send me the options for the building as soon as you've got them?"**

Griphook nodded again. **"It shouldn't be a problem. How shall any werewolves seeking refuge find the Alliance Foundation?"**

 **"Send them to Gringotts, and anyone asking about the Foundation or for refuge should come here. You might want to get the symbol of the Alliance engraved on your door, otherwise the first visitor is going to figure out that I'm behind the Alliance."**

Griphook raised an eyebrow. **"You don't want anyone to know you set it up? And what symbol of the Alliance?"**

Azrael shook his head. **"I don't want anyone to know who's behind this until either it crashes and burns or I'm out of school. I don't need to give people more of a reason to stare at me. As for the symbol of the Alliance, I'll get back to you on that. I want it to mean something, though. Once I've created a few rough drafts I'll send them to you to look through."**

Griphook made a noncommittal noise. **"If this works, you'll need to house a lot more werewolves than you've got room for according to your current plans, and the more people you're housing, the more time you're going to have to devote to keeping it running. Eventually you'll have to hire someone to handle the day-to-day things, and be the face of the Foundation since publicity will be your best friend when you're that big."**

Azrael hummed thoughtfully. **"I know of at least one decent werewolf, and there's bound to be more. It shouldn't be too hard to find someone capable."**

 **"I'll see if I can't dig out any possible candidates."** Griphook added. **"I think that's everything concerning the new Alliance Foundation, until I get a list of possible buildings and suppliers, and you think of a suitable symbol. Is there anything else?"**

Azrael grinned at the mildly exasperated tone Griphook used. **"I'd also like to claim the Heir ring of the Hallows family and take an inheritance test to see what else I might be entitled to."**

Griphook sighed and pulled out a blank piece of parchment and what Azrael recognised as a blood quill from his desk. **"Write your full name at the top of the page, everything you are entitled to will be listed."**

Azrael did as he was instructed and watched as red lines crawled down from his name, forming a list of what he was entitled to.

 _Azrael Edward Hallows_

 _Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Hallows - Approx. seventeen mill. Galleons - Wizengamot seat - Manor and House (Extreme disrepair)_

 _Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell - Approx. five hundred thousand Galleons - Wizengamot seat - Manor (Disrepair - three remaining House-Elves)_

 _Heir to the Minor House of Brown - Approx. twenty thousand Galleons - House (Disrepair)_

 _Heir to the Minor House of Selwyn - Approx. thirty thousand Galleons - Wizengamot seat_

 _Heir to the Minor House of Fawley - Approx. twenty thousand Galleons - Rare books (Held in vault)_

 **"Can I claim Lordship without revealing my identity to anyone?"** Azrael asked. Griphook nodded. **"Then I'd like to claim Lordship of all of them except Hallows, which I want the Heir ring for. Then, move everything from my new vaults to the Hallows vault. Also, look into making Peverell Manor the werewolf sanctuary. I'd rather not use it if I don't have to, but it would be good to have as a backup."**

Griphook nodded. **"May I ask why you don't wish to be known as a lord?"**

 **"Because I can't be bothered to go to Wizengamot meetings right now, not to mention I don't know the politics well enough yet to be sure I won't make a mistake that will cost me allies."** Azrael explained.

 **"Then am I right in thinking you will let your Wizengamot seats go empty for now?"** Griphook asked. Azrael nodded, and Griphook brought out a box from in his desk which when opened, contained all the rings Azrael had asked for.

Before long, Azrael had claimed Lordship to four houses - The rings merged into one, for some weird reason - and claimed the title of Heir for the House of Hallows, which did not merge into the other rings.

 **"Is that all, then?"** Griphook asked, and Azrael smiled faintly.

 **"Yes Griphook, that is all."**

In almost no time at all, Azrael was following his goblin guard/guide through the halls of Gringotts, quietly satisfied with what he'd achieved.

* * *

 **Yes, if you hadn't guessed, the bold was Gobbledygook.**

 **I'm sorry for not updating sooner. Blame our kettle, it poured boiling hot water all over my left hand. Kind of hard to type when your hand hurts like hell. I still have the marks.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**

 **P.S. I'm done rewriting. Everything's up to date now.**


	6. Chapter 6 - Diagon Alley

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 6 - Diagon Alley**

Azrael stepped out of Gringotts with a slight smile on his face and a fairly large bag of gold shrunk in his pocket that he'd retrieved from his vault after talking with Griphook. He hadn't been intending to start an Alliance Foundation, but it felt right. When he'd been reading through all the old Daily Prophets after he first arrived here he'd found some subtle - and some not-so-subtle - digs at werewolves in a few of those editions. Azrael checked what else was happening on those dates and found that those dates was when the Wizengamot was going into session about passing new anti-werewolf laws.

Azrael had no idea if that subtle bigotry wasn't there in his world or if he just never noticed it, but either way, he wasn't going to stand for it. If the Alliance Foundation worked, then maybe he had a shot at getting equal rights for intelligent magical creatures. Still, first the Foundation would have to succeed. Azrael mulled over ideas for the symbol of the Alliance while he strolled down Diagon Alley. The symbol would be part of the image the Foundation presented to the world; it needed to be impressive, and it had to hold meaning.

As he walked, Azrael was pleased to note that not many people paid attention to him, and those that did had clearly already heard about what he'd said in the Leaky Caldron. Azrael hid a grin as he thought about that - most of what he'd said to Tom had been for the benefit of the patrons. If they thought they knew why he was here, they wouldn't bother pestering him.

Azrael paused outside Ollivanders', thinking about what he'd told Tom. His wand hadn't actually met with an unfortunate accident, but Azrael had no idea if Neville Longbottom currently possessed the phoenix and holly wand that had chosen him. Best not to flaunt having exactly the same wand as the boy-who-lived if he could help it.

Azrael pushed open the door and stepped inside, eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom inside the shop. Ollivander made his traditional attempt to scare the new customer, and Azrael completely ruined his fun by not being at all surprised by the wandmaker's sudden appearance. Before long Azrael was waving wand after wand, but none of them fit him. The more irritated Azrael became with the whole process, the more volatile the results were. On his last few attempts, he'd managed to blow the front windows out, vanish half of Ollivander's hair, and set fire to the chair. Just as he did when Azrael was eleven, the wandmaker only got more excited the more wands Azrael couldn't use.

The door chime rang again and McGonagall entered, followed by a gaggle of what Azrael assumed to be the new Muggleborn first years. She stopped dead when she saw the mess inside, and the first years stared with open mouths.

"Hello, Professor." Azrael said resignedly. "Taking some of the first years to get new wands?"

Professor McGonagall stared at the mess before visibly pulling herself together. "Yes. You're getting a new wand? What happened to the one you used when we evaluated your skill level?"

Azrael frowned a little. "It met with an unfortunate accident." That was a blatant lie, of course. The wand he'd used when the professors had been making sure he wouldn't be behind in classes was, in fact, not a wand at all, but a piece of wood. Azrael had been casting wandlessly. The wand he had been using was a prop, nothing more. Dumbledore was an observant bastard, and if Neville did have the holly and phoenix feather wand then the Headmaster would find Azrael using the same wand a little suspicious.

McGonagall didn't look impressed. "And the state of this place?" She asked pointedly.

"I waved the wands just like Ollivander told me to." Azrael said in his best 'I'm innocent and don't deserve detention' voice. "It's hardly my fault they don't like me."

The Transfiguration professor still did not look convinced. The new first years were staring at him with wide-eyed bafflement. "Don't worry." Azrael said, winking at the children and shooting them a conspiratorial grin. "I don't think wands are usually this picky - they don't seem to like me."

They relaxed a little at his words, and a couple of the braver ones shot him a smile in return. "What do you mean by the wands being picky?" A small girl asked timidly, then hunched over a little as though expecting to be ridiculed. Azrael only smiled kindly at her.

"Some wands work better for some people, because of the way magic works or something." Azrael said, waving a dismissive hand. "That means there's one wand that's better for you than others, and when you wave the one that's best suited to your magic, the wand will let you know. That's where the saying, 'the wand choses the wizard' comes from."

A couple of the children looked ridiculously in awe just from learning that little fact, and Azrael smiled, remembering the awe with which he'd greeted the Wizarding World the first time round. Whichever way you looked at it, magic was just _cool._

"Do you go to Hogwarts too?" A small voice asked, and Azrael answered the question glad of the opportunity to keep his mind off of the past.

"I'm going to Hogwarts for the first time this September, but I'll be starting my third year since I was home-schooled before." Azrael explained.

From there the conversation moved on, Azrael chatting happily with the younger children about anything and everything they'd seen or heard of since they first learned about magic. Azrael answered all of the questions they had, even explaining the rules of Quidditch since one of the children asked about the no-broomstick-for-first-years rule. McGonagall watched it all with a raised eyebrow, marvelling at the ease with which Azrael kept them in line; he didn't let them start talking over one another, and he managed to stop them from degenerating into chaos simply by making himself their focus.

Eventually, Ollivander came back with another pile of wands for Azrael to try. The first years all clustered against the far wall, along with McGonagall - Ollivander's unusual cautiousness when Azrael moved to pick up the first wand had convinced the Transfiguration Professor that the large amount of property damage wasn't intentional after all. True to form, all of the wands misbehaved spectacularly. Once the children had become accustomed to the strange and invariably chaotic things that always followed Azrael testing a new wand, they even started to enjoy the show. Azrael finally put his foot down after accidently soaking everyone - including himself - with the latest wand, ash with a dragon heartstring core.

"This is ridiculous." Azrael said flatly. "Whatever you're doing, you're doing it wrong."

"Not at all." Ollivander replied, not bothered by Azrael's minor fit of temper at all. "You'll only need to try a few more, I've narrowed down the possibilities quite a bit."

"Trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of madness." Azrael quoted sourly. Hermione had always told him that whenever he'd tried to drown himself in firewhisky so he could forget the war, if only temporarily. "It didn't work the last ten times you tried, so why bother drinking yourself into a stupor again?"

Azrael shook himself out of the memory and refocused on the present. "It will not take long." Ollivander insisted. Azrael was quietly disturbed by the man's enthusiasm; one would think he would be at least a little upset about the state of his shop. Still, Azrael didn't protest too much when Ollivander pressed three more wand boxes in his hand.

"One of these should do the trick." Ollivander said happily. "There're all quite powerful wands, but suited for very different purposes, so you should be careful when testing them. If you wave one that isn't yours, the reaction will be quite powerful."

Coming from the man who watched Azrael blow up most of his shop without so much as twitching, that was quite worrying. Apparently McGonagall thought so too, as she got her wand out in case she needed to reverse whatever damage Azrael caused.

Azrael gingerly lifted the fist wand out of the box and held it away from his body. "Well, go on, give it a wave." Ollivander prompted excitedly. Bracing himself for the worst, Azrael twitched the wand a little in his hand.

Apparently even that was too much for the wand. With a loud bang and a bright light it flew out of Azrael's hand, clattering against the shelves and falling to the floor. Azrael hissed a little, bringing his left hand up to shield from the light. Seriously, what was the problem? He'd had trouble picking out a wand when he was eleven, but they didn't actively try to kill him.

Ollivander clapped his hands delightedly. "Oh, very well done. Not many people can get any reaction out of that wand."

Azrael glared at him. "It tried to blind me."

Ollivander shrugged. "At least you got a reaction. That indicates that you're in the right power range for one of the other two wands. Pick another, give it a wave." Azrael glared at the man again, but went along with it. He did need a wand. The fake one wouldn't stand up to scrutiny, and it would be too draining to cast wandlessly all the time, even for him. Especially if his plan to make him a little more like a normal third-year worked.

He opened the second box and picked up the wand inside. His breath caught as he felt the power coming from the wand, power similar to the magic surrounding Fate. It seemed to have a sense of gravity about it, whispering of a purpose and great deeds. Steeling himself, Azrael waved the wand in a small arc.

Sparks erupted from the wand as a feeling of warmth and _rightness_ filled Azrael. The sparks - half of them the colour of a warm fire, the other half silver that reminded Azrael of electricity and black - danced around Azrael as though welcoming him for a moment before fading.

"Oh, well done." Ollivander said excitedly. "Very good wand, very particular. Not many would be able to so much as hold this wand without it trying to defend itself it they didn't win it from you." He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Perhaps you should make sure that no-one else picks it up by accident. Wait there, I have just the thing!"

Azrael stared after the wandmaker, perplexed, before taking another look at his new wand. Fourteen inches, made from a fairly dark wood. It seemed plain, more than anything, which was perhaps part of the reason Azrael liked it. If he had his way, anonymity would be his middle name. Azrael looked at the wood again. It seemed familiar, somehow.

"Well, I daresay we are safe from any more accidents today." McGonagall said, tucking her wand in her sleeve. Azrael twisted to look at her, momentarily confused as to why she was alive when he'd watched her die.

"Mr Hallows, are you quite alright?" McGonagall asked. The sound of his new name brought the events of the past few months back to him and Azrael replied easily, pretending that nothing had happened.

"Of course, Professor. Just a bit of a headache." He rubbed his head where his scar used to be for effect and used the opportunity to raise his Occlumency shields even higher. He could not afford to have a flashback that would destroy his cover, even if he would pay for using Occlumency to suppress his emotions later.

Behind McGonagall the first years began to murmur excitedly about what they had seen, only this time Azrael did not join in the conversation. He turned the wand over in his hands carefully, deliberately not thinking about everything his life used to be.

Ollivander strode back in, something in his hands. "Here, try this." He said. "It's a wand holster, usually only sold to Aurors, but I'm allowed to sell them to civilians if I have a very good reason. Seeing as your wand may react violently to anyone but you picking it up, I judge this necessary." He took Azrael's right arm and pulled up the sleeve, stopping to look at Azrael's tattoos for only a moment before strapping the holster on and slipping the wand inside. He spoke while he worked.

"Your wand is very powerful, for all that it looks normal. It is well suited to private people, who dislike discussing anything they consider personal and are quite Slytherin in nature. The wood is Elder-" Azrael closed his eyes, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up inside. Elder wood, of course it was. "-and the core, instead of being part of a magical creature, is in fact a magical stone. Because magical stones as cores can be quite brittle, liable to shatter if you try to cast a spell that is too powerful, I usually grind the core stone to powder then mix it with a magically neutral paste the turns it into a far more flexible core. The stone used in your wand's core is something completely unknown to Muggles, we call it fato gratiam. It is, like I said, very picky." Ollivander finished adjusting the straps of the holster and stepped back. "There, that should do. Do be careful to make sure that no-one tries to pick it up except you." Azrael nodded solemnly and took out some Galleons, paying and walking out on autopilot. Once outside, he stopped it an out of the way spot and tried to process what he'd just learned.

His tattoos were the physical representation of his ability to call on Death. His eyes were the same for Fate. The two Greater Powers sent him here together. The Elder wand - Death's wand - was made from Elder wood. So was his new wand. Fato gratiam was Latin for Fate's favour. Fato gratiam was the core for his new wand.

Elder and fato gratiam. Elder wood and Fate's favour. Death and Fate.

 _Wonderful._

* * *

Azrael began the rest of his shopping in short order. He stopped by the trunk shop before any of the other shops on his list and bought one normal, if expensive, proper leather-bound trunk with anti-theft charms on it to store everything he didn't mind anyone seeing. He also bought a multi-compartment trunk like Moody's, with a few notable differences and the ability to shrink so he could hide it in his day-to-day trunk. He was paranoid, after all. Why wouldn't he have a secret place to keep supplies to deal with every possible emergency?

After buying things that had to be done in person - Hogwarts robes with Ravenclaw's crest and potions ingredients as well as the trunks - Azrael gave up on shopping because of the stunned and in some cases fearful looks the shopkeepers were giving him and decided to owl-order the rest. The only problem being, he didn't have an owl.

Stepping into Magical Menagerie was disorientating at best. It was dark inside, sending Azrael's senses into overdrive trying to find the threat, his instincts screaming 'ambush'. He ruthlessly crushed the desire to start cursing and instead began to inspect the dim shapes of owls around him.

He hadn't had another owl after Hedwig. He hadn't been able to simply walk into Diagon Alley and buy one, nor did he wish to replace his friend. Seeing as owl post became notoriously unsafe during the war, he had never been forced to buy another owl anyway. After the war ended, there was no-one he wished to write to. No-one alive, anyway. Now, if Hedwig existed in this world, she probably belonged to the Harry Potter here.

One owl caught his eye. He was like Hedwig in that they were both completely one colour. Unlike Hedwig however, he was completely black instead of white. His yellow eyes stared impassively down at Azrael.

"He's supposed to be a white owl, that one." The shopkeeper said, noticing Azrael's interest. "No-one ever could figure out why he turned out black instead. Couldn't change it neither, no magic seems to work on 'im, 'cept the magic that lets 'im deliver letters. A lot o' people think he's some kinda' bad omen cos' of that, but personally I think tha's rubbish. He's not got any bad to 'im, just different."

The words struck a chord in Azrael and he moved closer, slowly reaching out to the black owl and gently petting him. The owl relaxed, fluffing up his feathers a bit and nipping Azrael's hand in affection.

"I'll buy him." Azrael said with certainty. The shopkeeper cackled with glee. "Good, good. It's 'bout time he got a decent home. I reckon you'll be a good match. Just let me get a perch and some treats together, you'll be off in a tick."

There was soon a pile of things for Azrael to buy at the counter, but before he could pull out his money bag, he heard an indigent hoot from the back of the shop. A very _familiar_ indigent hoot.

Azrael spun on one foot, immediately finding the source of the noise and wondering how he'd missed her before.

Hedwig.

He couldn't believe she was here. Why wasn't she with Harry Potter? Or Neville Longbottom, since he was the boy-who-lived in this world? Then again, she was always a smart owl. If she liked him so much because of his personality and the Harry of this world had his parents, they could have grown up differently enough that Hedwig was ambivalent to Harry Potter.

Azrael walked over to the second friend he ever had, gently stroking her. Needing no more encouragement, she fluttered off of her perch and landed on Azrael's shoulder.

"Well I never." The shopkeeper was shocked. "She never does that, not for anyone." He looked at the small, heartfelt smile on Azrael's face. "You'll be taking her too, I sp'ose?" Azrael just looked at the shopkeeper and nodded.

* * *

When Azrael finally got back to the Manor he was more than a little exhausted and on edge. Not only was he out in public for the first time in this world, it was also the first time he went out in a busy place since the end of the war three years ago. His muscles were so tightly wound from almost reaching for his wand and then realising there was no threat that he felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

Nevertheless, despite his rapidly increasing worry that going back to Hogwarts was going to be beyond hard for him he'd had a good day. And now he had Hedwig back, along with another owl who would serve well for his more official letters.

Dobby had received a notice from Gringotts that he could now withdraw money from Gringotts on Azrael's behalf, which sent the house-elf into another round of tears at the trust placed in him. Azrael was sent a letter from Gringotts saying his new account had been set up with half a million Galleons from the Hallows account and all his profits from the illusion technology was set to go to that account.

All in all, Azrael was very pleased with the productiveness of the day. All he had to do was owl order the rest of his school things and find a way to limit his magic enough to pass as a third year and he would be as ready as he ever would to go back to Hogwarts.

* * *

 **Yet another chapter for all of you. Reviews are always welcome, hint, hint. I'll update anyway of course, but they're appreciated all the same.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	7. Chapter 7 - Magic

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 7 - Magic**

As expected, Azrael fell asleep quickly that night after his trip to Diagon Alley. Being around so many other people when he had isolated himself for the last three years was ... irritating, and unnerving because he kept reaching for his wand thinking he was under attack. It was also odd to see people walking around the Alley looking so carefree, unburdened by war. It only highlighted Azrael's displacement, his feeling of detachment.

Also as expected, Azrael raising his Occlumency shields in Ollivander's shop to prevent a flashback had consequences. In this case, it meant that his Occlumency shields gave way completely that night, swamping him with images he wished he could forget. Azrael woke up screaming, and didn't go back to sleep. What would be the point? He'd only have more nightmares, and he'd long ago learned to cope with only three hours sleep a night.

* * *

Azrael turned his wand over and over in his hands, a book on wandlore and another on magical bindings open on the desk in front of him, along with several scattered sheets of parchment with diagrams of possible magical blocks. Sighing, Azrael leaned forward and read the troublesome text again.

 _There are several types of magical blocks designed to stop or reduce the flow of magic. The first is a curse, focused with a dark ritual, that will turn one person and all their descendants into squibs until the power of the curse runs dry, usually many generations later when the family has lost all knowledge of the magic they used to wield and are assumed to be Muggleborns unless they have taken a blood test, available at Gringotts. Fortunately the ritual in question is no longer common knowledge and requires great power for those who do find it._

 _The second is a consensual, complete blocking of the magic by two individuals. One who is having their magic blocked and one who is placing the block. This method requires participation of both parties because the person who wishes to have their magic blocked must actively participation of both people because one person must cast the first half of the spell which allows a specified witch or wizards only direct access to the person's magical core, thus allowing it to be bound. Otherwise the person's magic may fight the binding. This is commonly used by wizards who are being hunted and wish to avoid detection from many tracking spells that focus on their magic or wizards who wish to leave the magical world forever. This does not affect the magic of any children conceived after the block has been put in place._

 _The final method requires above basic skills in Occlumency. Occlumency is the practice of creating a mindscape that represents yourself and placing your thoughts and memories inside, either hiding or defending both against any intruders. To place this type of magical binding you must enter your mindscape and find what represents your magical core. Then you build a wall around it and place some of your magic in the wall with the intention of binding your magic. You can either make this wall impenetrable, thus cutting off your magic entirely, or you can allow only a far smaller amount of magic than is normal to be used. However, unlike the second binding, this can be dangerous because this method does not alter how much magic your core produces, only how much magic you have access to. Thus, behind the wall your magical power will continue to grow. Sudden release of the wall will cause massive magical saturation, possibly going so far as to seek an outlet in the physical world, most often resulting in explosions. To release the magic without risk of saturation, use of a runic circle to drain the excess power is advised._

 _Because of the precise nature of the binding and the necessity of working with raw magic, not channelled through a wand, it is advised that you familiarise yourself with your magic as much as possible before attempting this binding._

That last paragraph was the reason Azrael had spent the last half an hour staring morosely at a book on wandlore.

Azrael had been very familiar with his magic during the war, and it was a habit maintained after the conflict ended. But now he'd been sent to a different world back in time, and every wand he'd touched except his own had tried to blow up in his face. Wands worked by interacting with the wizard's magic, so the fact that wands had a far more extreme reaction now than they did before indicated that his magic had changed. Which meant that he couldn't attempt the binding until he found out what was different with his magic. Oh, how he hated Fate.

Sighing, he stood and walked through the stacks, heading off in search of one specific book. During the war, the Order of the Phoenix agents had always been sent out in teams of two, to watch and guard each others' backs, and sometimes, to link their magical cores and double the power behind all spells required. However, to do this successfully, the magic had to be compatible. This was done by a spell cast on yourself that would gather information about your magical core and display it in a 3D hologram. Hopefully, Azrael would be able to see the difference in his core.

Finding the relevant book, Azrael skipped to the page he wanted and studied the pictures of the wand motions, carefully memorising the incantation needed as well. When he was sure he had it, he set the book down gently and pulled out his wand. Smoothly swish and flicking his wand at his chest in a movement similar to that needed for the levitation charm (wingardium leviosa) except inverted and with an extra clockwise spin, he said the words needed. "Lucis magicales."

A bright light blossomed level with his chest, hovering about ten centimetres away from his skin. It was emerald green in colour, the same rich shade the eyes that had so unnerved people had become. It shone softly, small tendrils waving gently as if in a breeze as the spell Azrael had cast mimicked the flow of natural magic in his body.

Slowly, the hologram grew, the emerald light filling a shape that looked like his body. That part of his magic, at least, seemed to be the same as ever. When the hologram began showing the magic close to his skin, however, Azrael knew what was different.

The magic at his skin was not his magic. Instead of a small and barely noticeable greenish glow around his body, there was an impressive corona of fire-like colours, evenly mixed in with black and silver. The colours of Death and Fate, Azrael presumed.

Azrael stared at the hologram thoughtfully. Everything inside him, where his magic was centred, was normal. It was only the corona of colours that showed anything different, and that was only supposed to be ambient magic that clung to every magical being.

Rolling his eyes in a manner most unseemly for the once General of the Light, (Not that he'd ever cared about that) Azrael cancelled the spell and strode back to the book on magical bindings with purpose. Whatever the purpose of the corona of Greater Magics that surrounded him was besides marking him out to every magical creature, it had no bearing on his internal magic, which meant his mental magic would be unaffected. He could perform the binding safely for now, and later he could figure out possible benefits and downsides of ... whatever it was that Fate had screwed with this time.

* * *

Azrael flopped gracelessly onto the sofa, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes sockets to try and block out the pounding headache that was trying to drag him into a hole of abject misery. The binding was in place, and if he wasn't massively mistaken then he now had access to only a little more magic than the average almost-third year. There was only three problems.

One, because part of his magic being blocked off meant that his magic was being forced to behave in a different manner than normal, he'd have to completely retrain his magic before he went to Hogwarts so he could at least defend himself.

Two, he would have to train himself to use less power in a duel, because he currently didn't actually have that much power, and trying to pull stunts like the ones he'd pulled in the war in his current state would get him killed.

Three, the magical binding wouldn't automatically adjust itself to mimic the growth of a child's core so he'd have to keep on changing it manually. Every month or so, if he didn't want someone to get suspicious over the course of several years. People like Snape were bound to notice. And every time he adjusted the binding, he'd get a splitting headache. The only upside Azrael could see in having to alter the binding so often was that his magic wouldn't need so much retraining, as the difference in magic would only vary a little. In short, his magic would begin acting like it was actually growing.

Dobby popped into the room again and Azrael winced as the sound caused the throbbing pain in his head to temporarily worsen. "Master Azrael sir, you is forgetting to ask goblins about publishing your notes on the core subjects, sir. And Hogwarts's Dumbledore would like to talk to you about a new security issue."

Azrael pulled a cushion over his head and groaned. Why was there always something else to do?

* * *

Azrael Flooed into the Headmaster's office as requested at precisely eleven o'clock, having taken three full-strength headache potions to stave of the aftereffects of the binding and dressed in some of his more eclectic choices for clothes. Big black Muggle boots with steel toes if he needed to kick anyone and a couple of daggers in them, skinny black trousers, a red dress shirt underneath a black suit jacket with crimson lining and his wand in his holster on his right arm, a long knife strapped to his back and a throwing knife strapped to his left forearm. Hiding the shapes of his weapons underneath the jacket was a dark grey trench coat with several other items hidden in the lining which could be useful in a fight. Not that he was expecting trouble, of course.

"Ah, Mr Hallows." Dumbledore said from behind his desk. "It's nice to see you again." His eyes twinkled forcefully as the Headmaster took in his attire. Professors McGonagall and Snape were sat to the left of the Headmaster, beside Fawkes' empty perch. Azrael could swear he heard a muffled groan and a muttered, "Not another one like Albus."

Azrael smiled internally. After being forced to wear either school robes or cast offs for most of his life, Azrael found he enjoyed wearing comfortable things that fit him. That being said, unlike Albus Dumbledore, he actually wasn't colour-blind. At least Azrael tried not to give people headaches.

"You asked to see me about a security issue, Headmaster?" Azrael asked politely.

The twinkling in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed as he remembered the reason for requesting Azrael meet him. "Yes, of course. What I'm about to tell you will be published in the Daily Prophet tomorrow when Minister Fudge releases a statement. I trust that you can keep this to yourself until then?" Dumbledore shot him a piercing look.

Azrael nodded. "Of course." He had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

"Three days ago Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban." Dumbledore began.

* * *

Dumbledore watched Azrael carefully as he told the new student about a press statement being released in the Daily Prophet tomorrow. As a previous victim of the escaped convict in question, Azrael Hallows was entitled to find out before it was released in the paper, and if their concerns about who Bellatrix was targeting was correct, then Hogwarts might not be as safe as it should be this year. That being said, he was not looking forward to breaking the news to Azrael.

"Three days ago Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban." Dumbledore began. The change in Azrael was instantaneous; he paled, his hands clenched into fists and most notably his eyes, which when entering the room looked peaceful and vaguely happy, shifted to reflect the change in the child's mood. Dumbledore carefully noted the emotions he could identify; anger was first, then pain presumably as the reminder of Bellatrix brought back bad memories, and finally a kind of bitter defeat.

"We also have reason to believe that she is after one of the other students in Hogwarts; as such the Minister has insisted on placing extra security around the school this year." The twinkle left Dumbledore's eyes as he remembered Cornelius's insistence on placing Dementors around the school. "Due to the circumstances surrounding your parents death and your emancipation following that, it is your right to be notified before the public release."

"What security measures?" Azrael's voice was tightly controlled, modulated to show no hint of emotion.

"The Minister has insisted upon stationing Dementors outside the school." Dumbledore admitted. "It is another concern of ours that the Dementors may have a particularly strong effect upon you."

Azrael's lips tightened and he stood. "All decisions regarding the Dementors to be posted anywhere except Azkaban must have a window of opportunity to be challenged by the Wizengamot in full session, according to the Regulation of Dementors act, 1654, yes? When is that?"

"August twenty-ninth." Dumbledore replied promptly. "I suspect you will not have enough support to stop the posting of the Dementors."

"Probably not." Azrael admitted. "But the House Laws concerning the last member of an Ancient and Noble line state that if the last surviving member of a House fears for their safety due to the actions of the Ministry, they can petition the Wizengamot to overturn or restrict the Ministry's decree. If I play it right, I can get the Ministry to put extra measures in place. Till then, I'll just have to practice my Patronus."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Very well. I am also sending one of our teachers, Professor Lupin, to ride on the train this year for the safety of the students. If you wish, it may be wise to share a compartment with him." Azrael nodded and strode over to the Floo, boots clunking heavily against the stone floor. "Of course, Headmaster." Throwing a pinch of powder into the fire, Azrael stepping in and was whisked away. There was no way he was going to let the Ministry station soul-sucking monsters around a school if he could help it. If he could convince them to add the restrictions, then the Quidditch incident might not happen. And if it did, he'd have a decent reason to make Fudge move them back to Azkaban.

* * *

 **So sorry for the lateness of this chapter, but to be fair, my internet has been on the blink so I couldn't write until it sorted itself out.**

 **Hope it's okay, Shib. :)**


	8. Chapter 8 - Shades

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 8 - Shades**

Azrael tossed and turned in his sleep as his nightmares surfaced again. Just like in the war whenever he got a rest period, his subconscious seemed determined to make him remember things he'd rather forget. This time however, he wasn't dreaming about the war, at least not directly.

 _Harry grunted as his small form was thrown to the floor. Why they insisted on training people only after they had taken a potion to temporarily return them to the body of their younger self, he had no idea._

 _"Get up, initiate, get up! No time for lazing around!" The instructor all but screamed at him. Wincing in pain, Harry dragged himself up, reminding himself why they were doing this. He, Draco and Neville had agreed to be trained in the Shades - an underground organisation that was almost a country of its own, had very different laws and nothing against murderers - so they would be more effective in the field. They had been warned that the Lords of the Shades - it's rulers - would not accept any responsibility for their deaths if they could not withstand the training, so they had known that it was going to be brutal._

 _They hadn't quite expected this, however._

 _The Shades refused to train anyone who wasn't a part of their organisation, so Harry, Draco and Neville - the General of the Light and his two Lieutenants - had volunteered to become citizens of the Shades in return for the training they needed, provided the Shades did not exercise any of their authority over them in regards to their fight against Voldemort. As it turned out, training was mandatory for every citizen of the Shades. Training was always carried out with the initiates in the body of a child but with their adult mind. For the first month, they spent their time building muscle mass for learning to fight and had every law and custom of the Shades drilled into their heads._

 _The Shades did not have crime the same way the Ministry did. Rape, murder, theft and kidnapping was all legal. However, the Shades had strict rules in place to limit these activities._

 _These rules were not on Harry's mind as he faced off against another of the children present. When the whistle sounded, they attacked each other viciously, each searching for the slightest weakness in the other._

 _Harry managed to slam a foot into his opponent's kidneys and then knocked him out with a hard blow to the temple._

 _First rule of the Shades. Don't let an enemy get back up._

 _Harry, Draco and Neville were all top of the class in pretty much everything - they had the motivation to learn as much as they could. Unfortunately, all that meant was they were hammered harder and faster than anyone else. Harry didn't think he'd ever been as bruised, not even when Dudley first invented Harry Hunting._

 _Despite the harshness of training, Harry had to admit that it worked. It would also probably leave him traumatised for life, but then, the war was doing that anyway. His instructors did not believe in leaving them open to any kind of attack. Poison designed to inflict pain but not kill was put in the food, and if checking your food for poison didn't become second nature to you, then you were the one to blame when you started screaming in pain. They were also attacked in their sleep every now and then - at varying times, and intermittently so there wasn't a pattern to it. When it first started Harry had woken only a few seconds before the instructors hands had closed around his throat, but now he was aware almost as soon as the door opened that something wasn't right._

 _The sound of crying at the other end of the gym drew his attention. A boy, one of the true children here rather than an adult in a child's body, had managed to knock his opponent down, but was refusing to attack him further. Harry watched with sad eyes as the instructor screamed at him._

 _"He's too good for the Shades." Draco commented, walking up behind Harry. "He won't hurt anyone more than he has to."_

 _"It's a lesson he'll have to learn if he's going to survive here." Harry said. "Showing people mercy will only get him hurt."_

 _"Potter! Get over here!" The instructor screamed. Harry stepped forward, blanking his face of any emotions and hiding the bad feeling that was increasing with every step._

 _"He," The instructor pointed a shaking finger at the initiate who had refused to hurt his opponent further, "Doesn't see the value of hurting someone so bad they won't want to get up and continue fighting. Teach him." With that, he stepped back._

 _Harry considered his options for a moment. This might be a lesson for the boy in front of him, but it was also a test for him. Had he become ruthless enough to teach a child that mercy was weak?_

 _A better question, he supposed, was; what else could he do?_

 _Nothing. The answer was nothing._

 _Wasting no more time, Harry attacked._

 _The fight was short and brutal. Harry could have knocked him out almost immediately, but instead he cause the child - for he was a child, truly - as much pain as possible without damaging him permanently. Dislocating shoulders, breaking ribs, and knocking the breath out of the kid. Within minutes he was collapsed on the floor, tears running down his face and biting back pitiful whimpers of pain._

 _Harry hated it. He hated it enough that he might have even failed the test if it would do the boy any good, but he knew it wouldn't. If he didn't hurt the boy, someone else would, and they wouldn't be as careful about not causing permanent damage._

Azrael woke up, breath dragging harshly from his throat as his heart beat out a furious tattoo in his chest. Unable to lie there any longer, he threw himself up and stumbled out of his room, leaning heavily against the wall out in the hallway.

The boy's name was Callum Browning. He was a Muggleborn who had gone to the Shades rather than be killed by Voldemort. He had joined the Order a few years after finishing his training, and Harry apologised for the incident during their training. Callum had eventually accepted, but Azrael had never quite forgiven himself for doing what had to be done.

Giving up on any hope of sleep or rest, Azrael strode to the library and picked up the first and second of his notebooks for all the core subjects - the ones he'd shown to the teachers when they came to test him - and strode to the fireplace. He had never been more glad that Gringotts was open twenty-four/seven; talking business would help push the memories back.

Within minutes he was walking through the lobby. A quick enquiry at a till revealed that Griphook was still available for business, and soon Azrael was settling down in the office that he had seen before.

 **"Is there anything I can help you with, Change-Bringer?"** Griphook asked.

 **"Headmaster Dumbledore suggested that these could be used as the text for the core subjects for first and second years. I wondered if they would be worth publishing."** Azrael said, letting the notebooks land on Griphook's desk. The goblin nodded and placed the books in his draw, which glowed for a second before returning to normal.

 **"Our people will have a look through them and see if they are likely to sell. Would you like to publish through Gringotts?"** He asked.

Azrael nodded. **"I would."**

 **"I will have a contract drawn up after the market department has finished their evaluation then. I also have several buildings lined up for the Alliance, if you would like to hear your options?"** When Azrael nodded, he continued. **"There are several buildings that might meet your needs, but only four of them are appropriately isolated. All of them are at least six miles away from any other habitation, Muggle or Wizard, and have the space required. None of them have the layout to house the werewolves as you specified without extensive interior redecorating. One of them does not have a basement, can I assume that that one will not meet your needs?"**

 **"Yes."** Azrael said.

 **"Then that leaves three options. The first used to be a manor house but was gutted when the family that owned it fell on hard times. It is fairly large; our architects estimate that it can hold maybe seventy people. It has a basement that can hold that number of cages, but it will be a bit of a squeeze. You can have the basement extended, but it will cost. I estimate that the total cost for refurbishment including expanding the basement, furniture, electricity and water as well as the cost of the building itself seventy-five thousand galleons. The second option can only hold around forty people, but not as much refurbishment is needed as it used to be a small boarding school. It has a large basement that I believe was modified to be the school gym before they relocated to a bigger campus. I estimate that it should cost around sixty thousand galleons. The final option is a bit of a long shot. It is actually a factory that was stripped after it closed down about ten years ago. There used to be a small town next to it, but it was abandoned as the jobs left. The land actually comes with the factory, so you'd get the whole thing. Redoing it will be quite costly; forty thousand galleons to buy, at least another fifty thousand to redo the factory. The upside is that the factory alone can probably hold about two hundred werewolves, accommodations included."**

Azrael drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. **"How many cages could the factory hold with only a small washbasin that can provide hot water per cage, no accommodations at all?"**

Griphook scribbled on a piece of paper quickly before looking back up at Azrael. **"At least twice as many, maybe five hundred if we use the space well."**

 **"Buy the first one and have it refurbished."** Azrael said decisively. **"That can be our short-term solution. Temporary housing. Buy the factory and the surrounding land as well. Refurbish the factory and put cages in it, make sure there is lockers or something near every cage so people can put spare clothes inside. Demolish the town next to the factory and get an architect to design a new one. This is a long-term project; werewolves can live and work in the town and go to the factory on full moons."**

Griphook nodded. **"Understood."**

 **"Your priority when dealing with the long-term project is saving money; we won't need it for a while yet, so it doesn't matter if it takes a while to sort out."** Azrael sighed and sat back a little. **"I want as few people as possible knowing about this in the Wizarding World; if wizards do know about this then I want them sworn to silence. We cannot let the Ministry realise that we are building a town for werewolves before we are capable of protecting them."**

 **"Understood."** Griphook said, frowning grimly. The goblins were well acquainted with the Ministry's brand of justice. **"Have you decided what to use for the symbol of the Alliance Foundation yet?"**

 **"I have."** Azrael said, pulling out a piece of paper and giving it to Griphook.

Griphook stared for a moment. **"It's a torch."** He said finally.

Azrael inclined his head. **"It is."**

 **"It's just a torch. A piece of wood, with fire burning the end."** Griphook said. **"It's a very pretty torch, and I grant you that having 'Alliance Foundation' carved into the wood handle was clever, and making the fire multi-coloured is eye-catching, your reasons for adding black and silver to the traditional colours of fire is obvious, but _it's just a torch._ What can this represent?"**

 **"Advancement."** Azrael murmured. **"Moving forward. New things."**

Griphook sighed. **"It isn't awful, I suppose."** He said, placing it in one of the drawers. **"I'll have it on my door by nightfall tomorrow."** The cabinet behind Griphook lit up and he retrieved the paper that had appeared within, along with Azrael's notebooks. **"The bank thinks that your books stand a chance of being fairly successful. They have sent up a contract. Gringotts will pay the fees to register your books with the Ministry and half the costs of actually publishing in return for ten percent of the profit."** He handed Azrael the contract. Azrael read it over and then signed at the bottom. Griphook then filed it. **"Which account would you like any profits to go to?"**

 **"The Hallows account, please."** Azrael said. **"Is there any other business to attend to?"**

 **"Not that I can think of, Change-Bringer."** Griphook said respectfully.

 **"Then I bid you good day."** Azrael bowed politely and left.

Azrael stepped out onto the bank and into the very early morning air. His business at the bank had taken about an hour and he'd woken at about half four in the morning, which meant that it was a little after six now. The sky was still dark, with only a faint lightening of the sky in the east to hint that dawn was near. Azrael strolled down the deserted street casually, heading for a small café he knew that opened at dawn, and was perfectly placed to watch the sun rise.

* * *

After a small breakfast of crumpets with black coffee, followed by another cup of black coffee because he'd only had four hours sleep, Azrael stepped out onto the Alley that was just starting to show signs of life, before heading up the street past Gringotts and into the Legal sector.

As a Lord of an Ancient and Noble House (Peverell) and Lord of three Minor Houses, he had the right to stand up at the Wizengamot and express his concerns about the Dementors being posted at Hogwarts on August the twenty-ninth. However, he didn't want anyone to know that he held those Lordships yet, and he definitely didn't want anyone to know that he could out-debate an entire roomful of adult wizards, all of whom were supposed to have more experience in the political arena than him.

As the sole heir of an Ancient and Noble House with no living Lord or Lady, however, he could ask the Wizengamot to consider halting the Ministers decision to put soul-sucking monsters around a school and then let his legal representation argue his case. It would help that he wasn't above playing the sympathy vote, reminding them that he had bad memories that he most definitely did not want to recall. Not to mention it would give him a chance to cast doubt on the sanity of Fudge's decision. If and when the whole thing did blow up in the Ministers face, Azrael would be there to politely and politically rub in the fact that he did, actually, tell him so.

He was entitled to a little childishness, now that he actually was one again. Not to mention it would gain him recognition, politically - the other Lords would be more likely to listen to him if he had a history of being right all along.

Where he came from, after the war there had been a lawyer who helped them set up the basic version of the new laws to replace the outdated old ones that allowed so many guilty people walk free. He had covered as many loopholes as possible, he had taken into account the reasons behind a crime and adjusted the punishment a law would give accordingly. He had brought a range of issues they had not had time to consider to their attention and done his best to ensure that guilty people would not walk free - and that they would be punished fairly. He had completely restructured the justice system to make it almost impossible for bribery to determine the result of a trial.

He had done this by having a damn near encyclopaedic knowledge of all the laws, and every trial (or lack of one) for the last thirty or forty years - at this point in time. By the time the war ended he knew more than the low-ranking Death Eaters had about the activities of the Inner Circle.

If Azrael remembered correctly and this world was the same as his in this matter, then Richard Nicolson was currently working for Lockwood & Co. in an advisory capacity. Azrael knew just how to get his attention.

* * *

When Azrael first met Richard Nicolson just a month after the war had ended, he had been old. Lines of worry etched permanently into his skin, grey hair and haunted eyes had characterised the man, marked as they all had been by the horrors of war.

The man sat across from Azrael quite obviously did not bear the same scars now. His hair was a deep brown with grey beginning to encroach at his temples. His eyes were creased with laughter lines and didn't have the same cynical calculating edge that he had gained. Azrael studied the man for a moment, wondering at the difference a decade or so could make before remembering what would have changed him from the man in front of Azrael now to the man Harry had known. The old man had told him on one of their drinking sessions in front of the fire one evening about the death of his wife and children in a Death Eater raid not long after his return was finally announced in the Ministry. His grandchildren had fled the country, but Richard himself refused to leave because he cared little for his life after the death of his family and wanted to help bring down Voldemort. He had actively worked to prosecute Death Eaters until the Ministry fell and he was forced to go on the run. Eventually, he found his way to the Order.

Azrael wondered how much to tell the man who had been one of the few people he would talk to after the war ended. Unlike Percy, Hermione and even Draco, Azrael had found it impossible to move on after the war, and Richard had understood that, being an old man who was only waiting for his remaining years to slip away from him until he could see his family again.

However, Azrael was aware that this wasn't the man he knew, the two major differences being that the man didn't know him and he hadn't lost his family yet.

* * *

Richard Nicolson studied the boy in front of him. He was quite a sight; eyes that burned like fire, a tattoo of runes that spelled out nonsensical gibberish, and a carefully chosen wardrobe that bespoke the boy's status as the Heir of an Ancient and Noble House.

He knew who the child was of course; the brother of Edward Hallows, who had died in the Halloween raids,'88. He had received the trail transcripts and reviewed the evidence against the group of Death Eaters that had been caught red-handed at the scene. A good portion of the evidence documented the damage the youngest Hallows son had suffered in horrific detail. According to the statement the Hallows Heir had made to the Aurors, he had been with his brother the entire time, although he had flat-out refused to give any further details. Given what he could only assume the Hallows Heir had suffered alongside his brother, Richard couldn't blame him. He decided then and there to treat Azrael Hallows like an adult; no-one could stay a child after living through something like that.

He idly wondered if this had anything to do with the escape of Bellatrix Lestrange as he started the conversation, the happy screams and laughter as the children played nearby a harsh contradiction to his grim thoughts.

"You want to hire me specifically? Why?" Richard had never been fond of word games when trying to decipher people's motives'. Human behaviour was complicated enough without words twisting meanings back to front.

"Because you're the best, you're a good man, and I have a lot of plans which might need a lot of wrangling to complete. You are not obligated to help me with them once you know what they are, of course, but I won't tell you anything without a wizard's oath not to reveal what I inform you of to anyone else, ever." Azrael replied easily, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to soak up the sunlight in a façade of unconcern. Meanwhile, his ears were listening sharply for any hint of the man's movement, his entire body relaxed but alert to the possibility of attack - no matter how unlikely.

Richard tilted his head to the side to consider it. "Client confidentiality is a part of the job, and easily done. I assume you would prefer to inform me in a private location? My office perhaps?"

Azrael shook his head. "Not secure enough, no matter how many silencing and privacy wards you put up. Hallows Manor is far more secure."

Richard raised a sceptical eyebrow. "More secure for you, but I have no guarantee of my safety." This was the point at which most purebloods got offended, but Richard was never one to mince his words, especially when he was a lawyer because of choice rather than because he needed money, which meant he could afford to alienate potential clients.

Azrael just smile and pulled out his wand. "I, Azrael Edward Hallows, swear on my magic and life that no harm shall come to you on this visit to Hallows Manor, provided you do not attempt to harm me, my house-elves or deliberately damage my property." A flash of light sealed the vow.

Richard inclined his head a little, finding himself become more and more curious about the boy in front of him. If his means of summons and chosen location to meet wasn't interesting enough, he also didn't bat an eyelid at the implication that he intended to harm Richard and swore a vow that could be fatal to him if he broke the terms without hesitation. Most wizards were cagy at best about swearing vows with such serious consequences, although Azrael Hallows had neatly specified that Richard would be safe at Hallows Manor this visit, which lessened the risk considerably provided Hallows actually didn't have any murderous inclinations towards Richard. "Good enough for me." He decided.

Azrael held out his hand and proffered the Heir ring of the Hallows family. Richard placed his finger on the family ring he knew was probably a Portkey with barely a moment of hesitation. He always had liked to find unusual things, after all, and the Hallows Heir had promised that the story he had to tell would be very interesting indeed.

Azrael glanced around for a moment to ensure that the Notice-Me-Not wards were still functioning and no-one could see them. "Safeguard." The activation phrase hung in the air for a moment before colours swirled violently around them and they came to a sudden halt in the Entrance Hall of Hallows Manor.

* * *

 **So, are you shocked Azrael would beat a kid up? Can you see that the war made him more ruthless, even if it also sort of made him into an emotional wreak? Will he tell Richard Nicolson everything? Is Richard a decent enough character for an OC?**

 **... Do you forgive me for taking so long to update? Please?**

 **Enjoy the chapter, Shib. :)**


	9. Chapter 9 - Nicolson

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 9 - Nicolson**

When a scrap of parchment appeared in front of Richard Nicolson in a flash of multi-coloured light (somehow managing to bypass the numerous wards on his office) which claimed that no, this wasn't a joke, and yes, this is about retaining your services, before promising that the motives behind hiring him and the reasons behind needing to hire someone in the first place were really very interesting and right up Richard's alley and this is a once in a lifetime opportunity before detailing a time and place to meet, Richard hadn't been expecting to meet the elusive Hallows Heir. He'd heard the rumours about the boy going to Hogwarts for his third year, but by all accounts he had no desire to take up his seat on the Wizengamot or otherwise involve himself with politics. Yet it seemed he had decided to do something in the adult world, for why else would he hire Richard?

Keeping his eyes on the figure in front of him, Richard carefully lowered himself into a chair. No matter what the Hallows Heir told him, it was bound to be interesting, for why else would he go to such lengths to contact him? Not for the first time, Richard wondered about the spell that transported the scrap of parchment through all of his wards like they weren't there. It definitely wasn't a published spell, or he would have heard about it - the pureblood circles would have been buzzing about something like that for weeks, and even if he was quite happy insulting them, he did keep in contact with a few of the decent ones; Augusta Longbottom, Cyril Greengrass, and others like them who tended to stay out of all but the most important politics. Which meant that either Azrael Hallows was in contact with someone who developed spells and had been clued in sooner than everyone else or Azrael Hallows invented the spell himself - something that should have been far above his abilities.

"I would like you to take the confidentiality oath." Azrael remarked from the chair opposite him. Richard didn't even bother to protest, knowing that he wouldn't get anything out of Hallows until he gave the oath.

"I swear on my magic and life that I will never tell nor communicate to anyone in any form, including the Mind Arts, anything that occurs in this room or I am told I this room." Richard didn't even blink as the oath was made; many clients required that their confidentiality be absolute.

Richard watched with a raised eyebrow as Azrael took out his wand and began speaking. "I swear on my magic and life that everything I am about to say is the truth."

"What was that about?" Richard questioned.

"Just a precaution." Azrael took a sip from the tea Dobby had served. "More for your sake than mine, since what I am about to say would sound quite mad without the oath backing me up."

"Oh? Do tell." Richard never could resist strange happenings. He suspected the person in front of him knew this, thinking about the note he sent. Which, of course, only deepened the mystery, for how could a child know about a personality quirk of his?

"I am from a different dimension, I am actually twenty nine years old, and the reason I am here is because the entities Death and Fate decided they owed me a favour and that being reduced to thirteen years of age and to a different dimension before the Second Civil War against Voldemort had begun would be good for my mental health."

Richard blinked, years of keeping a poker face the only thing that prevented his mouth from dropping open in shock. He could see why Hallows thought the truth oath necessary; without that he would have happily consigned the boy to the Mind Healers in St Mungos. He decided to tackle the most immediate item first. "Second Civil War?"

"Voldemort did not die on the Halloween of '81." Azrael explained. "He wandered the earth for ten years as a spirit, barely alive, before managing to possess one of his weaker followers and attempt to steal the Philosopher's stone. He was repelled, but barely. He also made a second attempt to return a year later, but that also failed. If events here hold true to the past I remember, then he will succeed in returning at the end of the school year, '95 - my fourth year. In the world I come from, the Ministry denied his return for an entire year during which the Voldemort and his Death Eaters were laying low. After his return was publically announced, however, a slew of attacks followed, resulting in the death of Amelia Bones, among others. The Ministry fell to Voldemort the summer of '97 and the Order of the Phoenix was forced to go underground in order to avoid being captured or killed. What followed was eight years of guerrilla warfare that decimated the magical population of Britain and nearly blew the Statute of Secrecy to pieces."

Richard slumped a little, head spinning from the onslaught of information. "What do you intend to do about it?" He said shakily. "You don't intend to let that happen this time?"

Azrael shook his head decisively. "No, I do not. I lost many of my friends in the war, and even if the people I will save are not them, they are still worth saving, and I have the knowledge to do so."

Richard sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face in a rare display of vulnerability. "Okay, tell me everything."

"From what I know, the key difference between my world and yours is that instead of going to the Longbottoms that Halloween night, he went to the Potters'. Lily Potter died to protect her son and thus enacted a blood protection that caused Voldemort's Killing Curse to rebound, and Harry Potter was marked the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Oh, the Potter brat." Richard grimaced a little. "From what I've heard, he's a prejudiced bigot."

"Perhaps he is, in this world." Azrael said calmly. "However, in my world, due to the blood protection that was gained when my mother sacrificed her life for me, I had to live with my jealous muggle aunt, her bully of a husband and their spoilt brat of a son. Growing up in a cupboard without the faintest idea that magic was real ensured that I did not become arrogant, prejudiced or a bigot, I assure you." Azrael tried to drive home the point about him being different from his counterpart as quickly as possible; he had to get across that he was not a child, and not comparable to the Harry Potter of this world.

Richard gaped; he couldn't help it. "You're Harry Potter?"

"I was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived." Azrael corrected firmly. "Once the Second Civil War began, most people informally called me the General of the Light, since I led a lot of the important attacks and became the leader of the Order of the Phoenix after the death of Albus Dumbledore. Now, I am Azrael Hallows, and as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Azrael Hallows is all I have ever been. The sooner you think of me as a separate person to the Harry Potter of this world, the better."

Richard nodded. "You fought a war; I can believe that you aren't like your counterpart. I do have a question, though. Why are you telling me this, even under a confidentiality oath?"

"I met your counterpart, the Richard Nicolson of my world, a month after the war ended and the rebuilding had begun. My Lieutenant and I asked you to rewrite the laws so they were fairer and had less loopholes that the purebloods could exploit. You and I became friends, of a sort." Azrael tapped his fingers against the armrest pensively, wondering how much to say. "That is how I know that you like strange coincidences and have a strong sense of curiosity, how I know that you are a good man. I also know," Azrael swallowed a little before continuing, "that you were a very different man then, due to the deaths of your wife and children in a raid by Death Eaters not long after Voldemort's return was announced." Azrael met Richard's eyes and shrugged. "With foreknowledge, everything can be changed."

Richard had to grip the arms of his chair tightly to stop him from getting up and running off to check on his family. "I was your friend, so you're doing me a favour and saving the lives of my family?"

Azrael shrugged again. "Pretty much. It would be kind of hard to explain how I knew without telling you everything."

Richard slumped a little, heart still in his throat. "Well, thanks, if your information is accurate."

"It should be." Azrael said. "From what I have observed, everything is proceeding the same here as I remember, simply with Neville Longbottom as the Boy-Who-Lived instead of me. Failing that, I don't intend to leave anything to chance; I will not simply intercede to save the lives I know will die, because the more I change things, the more events will diverge from what I remember, and attacks will happen at different times, thus rendering my knowledge useless."

"What do you intend to do?" Richard asked, sensing that they were about to get to the heart of the matter.

"I will create two groups; one to work in the shadows, and the other in the open." Azrael looked down mournfully at his now-cold tea. "One of the main reasons Voldemort got as far as he did was because of the bigotry and prejudice that runs rampant in the Wizarding World. The Alliance Foundation will begin to counteract that by aiding non-human races - werewolves, to begin with - whilst also countering Ministry propaganda and gaining the support of as many people as possible. The other group will focus on fighting Voldemort and his forces; a network of informants, fighters and spies to help bring him down."

Richard nodded. "Makes sense. Logistics of it are going to be hard to organise, though." He shot a piercing look at Azrael, but the Hallows Heir only snorted. "I led the Order of the Phoenix, which expanded massively after Voldemort began forcing people to take his mark because we were capable of removing it, through eight years of warfare, whilst managing to regularly visit my godson, in much worse circumstances than this. My biggest problem is going to be hiding what I'm doing while at Hogwarts. Dumbledore is too nosy for his own good, and Snape is a spy and perceptive in his own right."

Richard grimaced. "You might have a point there. Dumbledore is a genius, and if he wasn't in Slytherin, then he should have been. You really think you an hide everything from him?"

"Everything? No." Azrael said, shaking his head. "He is far too perceptive and over the course of the five years I will be at Hogwarts, he will undoubtedly notice something. I am sure he will catch on to my war-tuned reflexes - I usually have no reason to hide them and it is a habit I have been unable to train myself out of. However, I can simply tell him that I was trained in the Shades (which is true, if not the whole truth) and he will be none the wiser as to my past. If he suspects that I am tied to the group I will create to fight Voldemort, I can tell him I am a low-level informant and messenger. If he suspects I have something to do with the Alliance Foundation, then I can tell him I invested in it."

"You seem to have thought this through." Richard remarked.

"I think everything through." Azrael said. "Downside of fighting a war; I can't switch off."

"So what do you need me for?" Richard said.

"First, I would like you to represent me on the twenty-ninth of August concerning the placement of Dementors around Hogwarts. They have quite a profound effect on me, for obvious reasons."

Richard nodded, eyes distant as he considered the case. "I'll help you with that, since I don't approve of stationing monsters around a school. Fudge really is an idiot if he thinks that will improve his approval rating." He mumbled the last bit. "However, it's unlikely we'll be able to stop them being posted completely. More likely we will only be able to make them place a ward on the Dementors to prevent them straying too far."

"That's fine. If they break the restrictions, will we be able to have them removed completely?"

"Most likely." Richard said. "It depends on the circumstances. Did something happen originally?"

"Yes, the Dementors were attracted by the high spirits at the first Quidditch game of the season. However, I don't believe restrictions were placed on them then, so I have no idea if events will repeat themselves." Azrael frowned at his lap. "Secondly, I would like you to be the Hallows proxy on the Wizengamot."

Richard choked a little, beyond surprised - again. "Why would you want me? And what makes you think I would agree?"

"I want you because you are more than familiar with the Wizengamot through your work as a lawyer, as a lawyer you are accustomed to politics and capable of holding your own in a debate, and we share - or shared, technically - views on many different subjects. You must also remember that although this is your first meeting with me, I remember many conversations with you. I trusted that version of you, and while I am aware that you are not the same person, I also believe that you are similar in many ways. As for a reason why you should agree, well ... I don't have one. I would simply like for you to agree."

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Richard digested everything he had been told. "I'll think about it." He grudgingly said. "But I won't promise anything."

Azrael inclined his head, inwardly relieved. He hadn't been at all sure that Richard wouldn't refuse outright. "That's all I can ask."

Richard stood. "Is there anything else you wish to surprise me with?" When Azrael shook his head, he nodded briskly. "In that case, I shall take my leave. My bill for the Dementor case will be sent to your Account Manager, and I shall be in contact with you sometime in the next three days to discuss the particulars of the case."

"Of course." Azrael said, also standing. "I look forward to hearing from you."

Only a minute later, the Floo turned green as Richard Nicolson took his leave.

* * *

Azrael stared in consternation at the list of names he complied when trying to work out who to invite to his underground group to fight Voldemort. To his embarrassment, it wasn't quite as easy as he made it out to be when talking to Richard.

For one thing, Azrael couldn't be completely certain that these people would have the same personalities he remembered. People he'd seen fight to their last breath against Voldemort could well turn tail and run here, and vice versa.

Another thing was that he couldn't be certain that there wouldn't be an entirely new person in this world that hadn't existed in his old one, since he had no way of knowing for sure that Halloween '81 was the only or first divergence between the two timelines. This meant that if he wanted to be absolutely sure he wasn't letting in a person he shouldn't or not knowing about someone he should be inviting, he would have to collect information on every possible candidate to join his group the old fashioned way - research, research, research.

He would have to investigate and from that deduce the loyalties of everyone who; fought against Voldemort, is traditionally Light (and Grey for good measure, as well as Muggleborns), has a reputation for being good/honourable/fair, or otherwise doesn't like Voldemort for either political or personal reasons, if he wanted to get a good and wide support base that would be hard to target and predict.

Come to think of it, if he didn't want to look like an idiot if and when he was surprised later, he would have to do the same thing for all the Death Eaters just in case one of them was either someone new, or was a Death Eater when they shouldn't be, or wasn't a Death Eater when they had been.

During the war, there had been three clear leaders of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry was the General, and the icon of the organisation - he mostly dealt with out-and-out battles as well as the strategy that accompanied it, inbetween training fighters and keeping an eye on the number of available forces they had at any one time. Neville and Draco were the two Lieutenants - Neville dealt with the people, the medical supplies, organised travel for everyone and kept the safe house (more like castle; designed to hold every non-combatant member of the Order of the Phoenix) running day to day, which generated a surprising amount of work on its own. Draco dealt with everything sneaky, being the only Slytherin of the three, (despite what the Sorting Hat said) which meant the spies, sneak attacks and subterfuge were up to him.

All of which meant, in short, that Azrael had very little idea how to go about running a massive information network efficiently and with the minimum of fuss.

With a sigh, Azrael pushed aside the list of names and instead went for the old copies of the Daily Prophet. At least he wouldn't have to work out how to run everything immediately - to do things properly, he would have to create a comprehensive list of both Death Eaters, Order Members, and potential members for his group before he could begin to set anything up. The problem with that was, in that direction lay a backbreaking amount of work. He'd be lucky to be done by Christmas.

Might as well get started.

* * *

On the evening of the twenty-ninth, Azrael sat back in a comfy chair next to a merrily crackling fire, sipping slowly from a small glass of scotch.

He suspected that he shouldn't really be drinking alcohol at the age of thirteen, but he had no intention of getting completely smashed and it wouldn't do him any harm in small quantities. Besides, he deserved it, both as a congratulations for what he'd done so far and as fortification against the coming months.

His research into just about every important person in the Wizarding World was going well, not that there was much of it so far. By picking through the drivel in the Daily Prophet one edition at a time, he had started compiling a rather large list of names, writing down dates and events of interest as well as possible motivations and likely views. It would eventually give him a fairly keen idea of who was alright and who to steer clear from. Right now, however, it was simply a long, arduous fact-checking session, since he was barely two months into the issues at the beginning of the first war against Voldemort.

The fact that the Daily Prophet was only a guide and he would have to cross-reference the information with at least two other sources only added to the tedium of the process.

According to Griphook, everything with the Alliance Foundation was proceeding as planned - slowly, but with Muggle contractors doing the worst of the work, thus ensuring the project's anonymity in the Wizarding world.

Richard Nicolson had handled the Wizengamot meeting well, and Azrael had already had the agreed-upon bonus for a favourable outcome transferred to Richard's vault. As expected, the Dementors had been placed under wards which prevented them from moving more than a hundred feet away from their posts at all times, and an alarm had been placed so that should the Dementors break free, the Auror department would be alerted and required to take appropriate action; namely, ensuring the students were safe and rounding up the Dementors.

Richard hadn't yet given him a reply about his offer of being the Hallows proxy, but that was not entirely unexpected, Azrael mused as he stared into the swirling amber liquid before taking another sip. The lawyer had never been one for rushing into things, especially something that could so easily effect not only his life but also that of his family. Azrael would easily admit that living around him was hazardous.

Then there was his impending stay at Hogwarts. Azrael sighed and finished off the last of his drink as he thought about that. He might love the castle, but an afternoon in Diagon Alley surrounded by people had grated on his nerves, requiring all his self-control to not snap and hex someone. To be surrounded by children with underdeveloped tact and, most likely, an irrepressible curiosity towards him since he was new to their year sounded more and more like hell. He could only be glad of the Room of Requirement, which was perfectly capable of making things he would be allowed to blow up. Maybe if he kept on exhausting his magic he'd be less likely to snap?

Not to mention that these would all be the younger version of his friends and colleagues, a great many of whom he had seen die in battle. No, Azrael wasn't even going to think on that.

Azrael stood and reluctantly put the bottle of scotch away rather than pour himself another drink before stretching and heading upstairs, determined to sleep at least a few hours despite the mixed anticipation and dread swirling inside him. In three days time, he would be back at Hogwarts - at once more similar and yet more different than he could ever have expected.

* * *

 **So, another chapter ... I wrote the first half of this one almost right after finishing and uploading the last, since I just felt like it. I would like to be able to say I updated again this soon because I'm punctual and organised, but, you know, that would be lying ... because I just felt kinda guilty. Also, I wanted to get Azrael to Hogwarts already. I mean, its what, the ninth chapter and we haven't even started school yet?**

 **Enjoy my irregular updates, Shib. :)**


	10. Chapter 10 - Express

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 10 - Express**

Richard Nicolson sighed again as he braced his arms against the counter and stared out of the window. It was August 31st, two days after the Dementor appeal, and he still hadn't decided what to do about Azrael Hallows' offer.

"Secondly, I would like you to be the Hallows proxy on the Wizengamot."

Those words had shocked Richard to the core, had shaken him almost more than the knowledge of the Hallows Heir's origins. It implied trust, deep and almost unconditional. Usually, the people assigned to proxy a seat were old family friends, people who had known each other for years and would place their life in the other's hands. To have that kind of trust handed to him was ... humbling. He'd only met the Hallows Heir the once; how could someone be so completely convinced of his motives after such a short length of time?

Yet, for the boy he had seen, it wasn't their first meeting. Azrael Hallows had been good friends with another version of himself, apparently, and as insane as it sounded Richard couldn't bring himself to doubt it; Hallows had taken an oath, after all.

Another version of himself; one who had lost his wife and children in a senseless raid by Voldemort's minions. He shuddered to think of the possibility. He couldn't imagine living without them; he loved his children, and his wife managed to ground him in a way few could. To lose them ... he could see why in the Hallows Heir's world, he had joined the Order of the Phoenix. By that point, he would have had nothing left to lose. He could be very single-minded when he decided on a course of action, and he would have wanted Voldemort dead; hell, he wanted Voldemort dead in this world, and he hadn't lived through the deaths of his wife and children. It almost made him want to accept Azrael Hallows' offer.

But he had stayed out of the messy side of politics for a reason. He had seen the damage infuriated purebloods would inflict on others for not automatically giving them what they wanted because of their name or wealth or power. He had seen the corruption, and decided to stay out of it. He might be a lawyer renowned in some circles for his encyclopaedic knowledge of the laws, but he only took on specific cases. He insulted purebloods, but never to the point where they sought retribution and he never took a case against the ruthless ones who would lash out at his family if he won. He rode the edge.

But if he became the Hallows proxy, all that would go out of the window. Yes, he could help people ... but it could hurt his family. Was he willing to risk that?

A large part of Richard wanted to say no; to forget that Hallows had ever made an offer, or that Hallows was from another world. He could carry on not getting involved, letting the corruption and the purebloods run wild for the sake of his family, burying himself in the law instead.

Richard twitched slightly as a smaller pair of arms snuck around his waist, Emmalyn's delicate chin resting on his shoulder. "You're bothered by something." She stated.

He grunted noncommittally.

"Confidentiality oath, huh?" She asked, and he could feel her smiling next to her ear. "Yeah." He admitted, and sighed. "I should leave the whole thing alone, anyway. It'll only bring a whole lot of trouble."

"Ah." He could feel her amusement. "So you don't want to risk anything, but you can't walk away."

Yes, Richard thought, that was exactly it. He had turned a blind eye for so long, not willing to risk his family when long-term, nothing would change. Winning a case would not make the purebloods change their tune - they were too arrogant, too set in their ways to be taught any different. And yet, when the opportunity came to work with someone who could change everything, he didn't want to get involved. Didn't want to risk it.

He was too afraid. Afraid that his actions would cause his families' death. Afraid of what such a bold stand would cost him.

As a Ravenclaw, he had never been one for pointless heroics - like the Slytherins, he believed in living to fight another day. As a lawyer, he had avoided fighting the small fight so that he wouldn't lose his family for no long term difference, no matter how much he hated turning a blind eye. Now, his first instinct was to turn away again. Surely Hallows didn't need him desperately, and he could find someone else to help him change the world?

Yet a part of Richard always cried out at the injustices some of the elite of society condoned or arranged, and now he had found someone who knew how to change it - who had the experience, knowledge and motivation to make things different - he couldn't just walk away. He was being pulled in two different directions, the safety of his family and the possibility of a better world, one he'd dreamed of when he was a child and first looked into law.

He turned around without dislodging his wife's arms, dropping his hands on her shoulders and pecking her on the lips in a quick kiss.

"It's long-term." He said. "This ... this could be huge, Emmalyn. It could change everything."

"Still concerned about us, huh?" She freed her left hand and gently flicked his nose. "Nothing's going to happen, silly."

Richard's eyes dimmed as he remembered what had happened to his family in that other world. Killed in a raid ... staring Emmalyn's face and thinking about what it would be like having to live without her, he felt empathy well up in him for that other version of himself who had lost so much. Tugging Emmalyn closer, he pulled her into a hug and buried his face in her neck.

Wrapped up in Emmalyn's arms, he let himself imagine what that life would have been like; he could very easily picture hating Voldemort and joining the Order of the Phoenix. Living through the war, always in hiding, probably forever moving from place to place to avoid discovery. He could hardly imagine what that must have been like. And then re-writing all the laws, free of ridiculous loopholes that the purebloods shamelessly used to their advantage and the muggleborns were kept in the dark about.

What would that version of him do, if it were him standing here now? He suspected he would save his family and then help Azrael Hallows change the world, if they were really as close as the dimension traveller had made it seem.

When he thought about it though, would ignoring the Hallows Heir really save his family? In that timeline, his family had died when he had done nothing. With his knowledge now, he could change that, but Hallows freely admitted that things would be different and that new attacks would happen. His family could be targeted at a different time - in which case, Azrael's fighting Voldemort group would be their best chance of survival. If there was a chance they would die no matter what he did ... then was it really worth staying out of things?

He pulled back from Emmalyn and smiled as he decided what he would do. He wouldn't agree, not yet - he would let the Hallows Heir sweat a bit first. And while he was sweating, Richard would be plotting; there was something else he wanted before he agreed to be the Hallows proxy.

* * *

Azrael felt ridiculous as he fidgeted next to the main fireplace of Hallows Manor. He was a _war general_ , for Merlin's sake, he shouldn't be worried about meeting a bunch of children, children that he could no doubt kill in less time than it would take them to blink! There was nothing to be afraid of.

Then he remembered that he had seen each and every single one of them fight a war at some point (on both sides) and was back to quaking in his boots.

His school trunk was on the floor next to him, covered with a few wards that he figured wasn't too suspicious for a talented thirteen-year-old to cast. Inside a hidden and heavily warded compartment of his school trunk was another trunk that was almost impossible to break into short of blowing it up and contained everything that the persona Azrael Hallows could not afford to be seen with. A well-stocked potions compartment that contained everything from Skele-grow and pain reliever to poisons and bezoars, his research and research materials on Death Eaters, possible allies, anyone who held significant positions in the Ministry and what felt like every other person on the street, a variety of weapons, a small library containing some less than reputable books and anything that could even vaguely connect Azrael with the Shades, the Alliance Foundation, or different worlds - including his genuine Order of the Phoenix pendant, which Dumbledore would know instantly to be the real thing, and certainly not something he'd given to Azrael.

Not that Azrael intended to claim membership to the Order; as much as he respected the old man, he suspected they would quickly disagree with the way things should be run.

Azrael himself was dressed in his Hogwarts robes, intending to Floo straight to Platform 9 3/4 without going through Muggle Kings Cross. Underneath his robes was his usual white dress shirt and black slacks, with his clunky steel-toed knife-holding boots firmly on his feet. Over his robes he had forgone his usual dark grey trench coat for a dark grey summer cloak, outfitted with items hidden in the lining. As usual, his wand was in a holster on his right arm and a throwing knife was strapped to his left arm.

Deciding he couldn't possibly put it off any longer if he wanted to arrive before the platform was crowded (and thus he would be stared at) Azrael grabbed his trunk and stepped into the fireplace. Stepping out of the fireplace on the platform gracefully whilst carrying a trunk wasn't easy, but Azrael didn't fall over or wobble too noticeably and decided to count that as a win.

The platform was nearly empty with only a few people arriving an hour and a half before the train was due to leave. Azrael had every intention of avoiding as much attention as possible, and that meant finding a compartment early on so people would leave him alone.

Azrael entered the front of the train, working his way down as he looked for Remus - or Professor Lupin, as Azrael Hallows was supposed to know him. Azrael took a moment to use Occlumency to switch from thinking of the werewolf as Remus to thinking of him as Professor Lupin. He couldn't afford any slip-ups here - calling a teacher by his first name would no doubt be a little odd.

He eventually found the Professor in one of the last carriages, and after tapping gently on the door and opening it, Azrael had to stop in the doorway and take in the changes that a different universe could bring.

This Remus Lupin did not look unhealthy and underweight. His robes, while not extravagant, the height of fashion, or particularly impressive, were made from a good material and certainly not ragged. He had far less grey hair, and his wrinkles were significantly reduced, although laughter lines were prominent around his eyes. All in all, he looked far healthier. Azrael could only assume that with Remus and Sirius bonded as life partners, Sirius hadn't put up with Remus's crap about not buying things that he didn't absolutely need.

Azrael felt like a whole had been punched through his chest. This was Teddy's father. _Teddy's father._ Azrael could only hope that the Professor hadn't noticed how affected he was by seeing his dead friend again.

"Hello." Re-Professor Lupin said, smiling gently at Azrael. "Azrael Hallows, I presume?"

Azrael nodded. "Yes, that's me. I was told I could share a compartment with you?" He internally winced. He was reminded so much of Teddy, and guilt was rising steadily in his chest, and now he probably sounded like, well ... a nervous child. Which he wasn't. Much.

"Yes, of course." Professor Lupin said. Not needing any further invitation, Azrael entered the compartment proper and busied himself shoving his trunk onto the rack, avoiding Professor Lupin's eyes the entire time before settling in the window seat, staring out onto the platform where a few more people had arrived.

"Are you looking forward to staying at Hogwarts?" Professor Lupin asked kindly.

Azrael blamed his truthfulness on the shock of seeing Professor Lupin again. "Not particularly." He said dryly. When the Professor looked at him, startled, Azrael shrugged. "I quite like studying at my own pace, and I'm not very good with people."

Professor Lupin tilted his head in questioningly. "Then why are you going to Hogwarts, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The library." Azrael joked before sighing. "There's a lot of questions about standards that home-schooled children are held to. If a home-schooled person has the same scores as a Hogwarts graduate, then the Hogwarts graduate is more likely to get a job." It was true. Azrael had come across the issue in several of the old Daily Prophets, and it didn't take much to verify that the same held true today.

Professor Lupin nodded sadly. "That does happen, unfortunately. It's getting better in recent years, but that attitude is still prevalent." Among the snobby purebloods that believed that anyone who didn't go to Hogwarts was poor, therefore not worth their time, Azrael added mentally.

"But you're interested in the library?" Professor Lupin asked in a not-so-subtle way to change the subject. "You're a Ravenclaw, right? Your tie is blue and bronze."

Azrael nodded. "Yeah, though the Hat really wanted to put me in Slytherin. I didn't really want to get pulled into that stupid House rivalry."

Professor Lupin looked surprised. "Yes, I suppose it is stupid." The compartment door opened again and a small boy walked in. "Dad, when -" He cut himself off when he saw Azrael. "Who is that?"

Azrael blinked in shock, completely wrong-footed. _Professor Lupin had a son? Why the hell didn't Fate warn me?_ A small part of Azrael noted that the boy wasn't exactly friendly, but then his dad was a werewolf, so he was probably used to people picking on him.

Professor Lupin shot his son a sharp look. "This is Azrael Hallows. Mr Hallows, this is my son, Regulus Black."

Regulus just stared at him, completely unimpressed.

"Uh, hi?" Azrael said uncertainly. Seeing Remus again and then finding out he had a son here, made Azrael feel like his world had been ripped out from under him. He could only hope that the impact as he hit reality again wouldn't hurt too much.

"Hi. Why did you make your eyes look like that? It's weird." Regulus said flatly.

Azrael internally winced, even as he began to get angry. He hated people commenting on his eyes. "It's not _my_ fault my parents exploded a dangerous experimental potion." He snapped back.

"Oh." Regulus cleared his throat. "Right."

Professor Lupin frowned at Regulus a little. "Be nice, Regulus. Mr Hallows is starting his third year at Hogwarts, he's been home-schooled before now."

"Okay." Regulus glanced at his watch before looking at Azrael with a slight frown on his face. "Hey, how come you're here so early? Most people turn up right before the train leaves."

"I dislike people staring at my eyes." Azrael commented drily, with a half-smile to show he didn't mind that much. "Besides, it's not like I have parents to say goodbye to."

Regulus looked at him with a clear question in his eyes, and Azrael quirked an eyebrow in response. "Dangerous exploding experimental potion, remember?"

"Sorry for your loss." Professor Lupin said, Regulus nodding along. Azrael waved a hand dismissively, unable to completely hide his tense frame. "It was ages ago, don't worry about it."

Silence prevailed in the compartment for a few minutes as the morbid subject got the better of them. Azrael dwelled on the irony of his parents getting blown up in this world when that was what Aunt Petunia had said about Lily and James Potter when Hagrid came to collect him on his eleventh birthday.

Regulus eventually broke the somewhat stilted silence that had fallen over them. "Dad, when will the trolley cart come around? I didn't eat any breakfast because Dad spiked it with a colour-changing potion again."

Professor Lupin chuckled. "Yeah, that would be Sirius. What gave him away?"

"The formula he used smells faintly of lavender." Regulus said. "It was kind of obvious."

"Well in that case, the trolley should be around at about one o'clock." Professor Lupin said.

Regulus nodded resignedly. "Yeah, I figured. I think I'll try to finish that Theory of Transfiguration essay you set me to distract myself." He pulled a roll of parchment from his pocket and began writing neatly, tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Professor Lupin pulled out a book on Defence and Azrael stared out of the window. Unnoticed by Professor Lupin or Regulus, Azrael went through the breathing exercises he used to access his mindscape and quickly slipped into a meditative state.

* * *

Azrael's mindscape was quite deliberately designed to be difficult for wizards to navigate. His theory was, even if they broke in, they wouldn't be able to find anything unless they understood where they were and therefore where important memories were likely to be kept.

Which why Azrael's mind was about as sci-fi as it was possible to get. The majority of wizards (and in particular wizards who were likely to know about such an obscure art as legilimency (read: purebloods)) had almost no idea that computers existed, let alone how to operate them or what is theoretically possible with really advanced technology.

Azrael opened his eyes when the hum of machinery to find himself standing in the room he labelled Control. Around him there were banks of odd-looking buttons in various colours and sizes. Despite the apparent random arrangement, all the buttons, levers and other controls were carefully placed and well organised, with the colour and shape of the control denoting it's function. The entire room was lit from below by the massive well-lit engines, which Azrael called the Capacity Indicators. If they were functioning well, then he was thinking fast, if they were barely doing anything, then he was barely thinking, and if they were shuddering and jerking, then he was under some spell or potion that altered his normal thought processes. Control was separated from the Capacity indicators by a wire mesh floor. Above was a chrome and glass ceiling which showed the sky of his mindscape - black clouds and heavy rain.

At the head of Control was a dais with a series of high-tech screens. This was Computer, a characterisation of a part of Azrael's personality, given a different form inside his mindscape.

"Good morning, General. Is there an issue you wish to address?" A cool, even voice washed over Azrael. He relaxed a little. Computer was the soldier in him; the one who took a goal and made it happen. He helped Azrael maintain his mindscape. Azrael had based him off of JARVIS, from the Iron Man movie. He and Teddy had snuck out to watch it in the Muggle world during one of the rare lulls inbetween battles.

"No, there isn't. Just tamp down on Teddy related emotions for a while and make sure we don't forget that Remus has a son called Regulus here." Azrael said, striding to the door. "I'm going to check on the magical binding."

"If I dampen your emotions regarding Teddy for the time being, there will be a resurgence during your dreams tonight." Computer stated calmly.

"Noted." Azrael waved a hand as he pulled open the door. "Alert me if Professor Lupin or Regulus tries to get my attention."

"Yes, General." Computer said, before Azrael allowed the door to swing shut.

Azrael strolled along the covered glass walkway. He was effectively inside a giant tube, suspended high above the city that served as his mind. The florescent white floor eerily lit his face, shadows appearing and disappearing over his features as he walked. The heavy rain pounded the glass above him, dripping off the edges to fall into the depths below. Outside the sheltered bridge, flashes of electronic light appeared and disappeared briefly, barely visible through the thick gloom of night and pouring rain.

Azrael paused for a minute to watch the flashes go by. They were the drones that made their way around the city and represented his thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. Several streams of them were consistent, never changing (even if there was no discernable pattern. Like with the colour and shape-coded controls, Azrael intended to make it hard for anyone seeking information to know where to look); they were the thoughts that he always had, every second of every day. Most of them were habits that he gained in the war, such as checking for people following him, watching for possible attackers or ambushers, and making sure that he still had his weapons. Others were seemingly random, about almost inconsequential things. Those ones were equipped with modifications to protect the important thoughts in event of a legilimency attack.

Eventually the walkway ended, leaving Azrael standing in the rain on a chrome platform several hundred meters above the surface of his mindscape. Several narrow strips of metal stretched off towards the other buildings Azrael had built. Turning towards the east with a quick point me, Azrael set off to his left.

As he inched along the foot-wide path that had no railing, Azrael couldn't help but admire the defences he'd spent painstaking hours each day developing. Computer could automatically activate every single defence in his mind as soon as he felt a legilimency probe, defences which included this barrier-less chrome platform and path turning so they were vertical, the automatic failing of every direction spell used, and everything on ground level being woken up.

Letting his eyes slip downwards, Azrael saw the drop below him and shuddered. Sometimes he hated his imagination.

Soaked through and shivering, Azrael approached the end of the path and gratefully pressed his palm to the scanner at the door. After the device flashed green, Azrael pushed the door open and stepped inside.

This building Azrael had internally dubbed the Magic building, because it not only contained his representation of his magical core and binding, but most of his knowledge of magic. Like most places where there was high concentrations of magic however, the dimensions did not match and the whole place was filled with nooks and crannies. If that wasn't bad enough, everything kept moving like the stairs at Hogwarts, so a map was useless.

It didn't help that the entire building was one giant library. Not even Azrael knew the way through; he had to be guided by Computer. Yet another security measure, since Computer would never help an invader.

Following Computer's instructions almost on autopilot, Azrael quickly came to the room which held his magical core, as well as the binding. One could not be found without the other, after all.

Pressing his eye to the scanner, Azrael was momentarily blinded as the light flashed. A second later the door hissed open and he found himself standing in a white space. There was no discernable walls or floor, just the same shade of white all around, like a blank canvas.

Except behind Azrael.

Turning towards where the door had been a moment ago, Azrael found himself staring at a mix of lights similar to the one he had seen when using the lucis magicales spell. A rich emerald green ball of light crackled happily, sparks of red and orange and black and silver dancing happily across the surface. His magical core hovering about two meters above the ground. A steady stream of magic was cascading down, into the magical binding.

The binding actually acted as a dam more than anything. It caught the magic and held it in a reservoir, only allowing a specific amount of magic to flow past for Azrael to use - right now, a little more power than the average third year could use.

The only downside was that the reservoir would accumulate magic very quickly but could only hold so much, as Azrael's core wouldn't produce less magic because of the binding. By Azrael's calculations, he would need to empty the reservoir over the summer holidays after his third year or risk the dam breaking, which would lead to magical overextension and, if he didn't find a way to ground the majority of the magic, death.

"Seems to be holding up alright." Azrael observed.

"Were you expecting it not to, General?" Computer asked, his voice projected through the speakers Azrael had hidden everywhere in his mindscape.

Azrael shrugged. "I haven't discounted the possibility that things go wrong for me just because they can." He said. "It doesn't hurt to double-check that everything is working as it should."

"Yes, General." Computer paused for a moment. "General, I believe someone is trying to get your attention."

Azrael sighed. "Of course they are. Do I have time to walk out, or am I going to have to go the quick way?"

Computer sounded amused as he answered. "I'm afraid you don't have time to walk back to Control before leaving."

"Alright, alright." Azrael rubbed his hands over his face. "Might as well get this over with. Send me out, Computer."

Azrael jerked in the train seat a little as the hum of his mindscape faded around them. He really hated being tossed out of his own mind like that; it always felt like he'd put his foot down and expected to meet the floor, but found air instead. It made Azrael's stomach try to jump up his throat.

* * *

 **So, another chapter, and within a reasonable time, too. Like it? Hate it? Tell me what you think.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	11. Chapter 11 - Dementors

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Author's note, IMPORTANT - Just briefly, I've had a few comments asking about the colour of Azrael's eyes. To clarify, the eye on the cover of the story? That colour. When I said 'eyes of fire', I meant it literally. Also, the intensity of his eyes changes depending on his emotions, which is what makes him relatively easy to read for people like Dumbledore, who understand facial expressions.**

 **ALSO, PLEASE READ - While I was writing this, about 700 words in, my laptop went into repair because it was freezing regularly. I started using the family laptop instead, which was fine, until we were burgled and every laptop, phone and tablet in the house was stolen. Finally, when I was writing on my brother's new tablet before I got my laptop back, I managed to get about 3,500 words down before it didn't save (even though I consistently pressed the save button to make sure I wouldn't lose anything) and I was left with 1,900 words. For that reason, I really just want to get this chapter over with and apologise for any mistakes or shoddiness, because frankly, I'm irritated beyond belief at the whole series of events.**

 **P.S. The timing and point of view on this chapter jumps around a fair bit, so bear with me on that.**

 **This one is rather long ... not sure if that's good or bad. Let me know!**

 **Chapter 11 - Dementors**

Remus watched Azrael Hallows discretely as the third-year stared out of the window, unseeing. The boy had seemed like an ordinary child at first sight, but something about him just didn't strike Remus as right. His wolf was almost continuously growling faintly in the back of his head, warning that Azrael Hallows could be dangerous, and those were instincts Remus had learned to trust. He knew Regulus had felt it too; as a child, Regulus wasn't able to control his wolf to the same level that Remus could, hence his rudeness to Azrael when he entered the compartment. Remus was actually surprised that Regulus had chosen to stay in the same compartment.

Yet, despite those instincts, Remus had immediately seen another side of the boy. He wasn't just dangerous; Azrael had been nervous when he entered the compartment, hence his stilted question. He obviously hated people commenting on his eyes if he arrived at the platform an hour and a half early to avoid the majority of the people, and Remus's nose had registered the faint edge of anger when Regulus implied that he had made his eyes different deliberately.

The Hallows Heir had also reacted oddly when he explained that his parents had died when the potion exploded. The reminder obviously bothered him, but the faint miasma of grief and guilt the child had had since he entered the compartment if not earlier did not intensify. Whatever Azrael was feeling so badly about, it wasn't his parents, which was odd in and of itself; surely any child would feel something towards people who raised him? Then again, maybe the Hallows Heir had come to terms with his parents' deaths and the grief and guilt apparent around him now was nothing to do with the potions explosion that had taken Azrael's family.

Somehow, Remus got the feeling he was missing something.

The Professor found himself studying the tattoos he could see started (or ended) on the Hallows Heirs' right cheek, stretching down to the right side of the child's neck and further down below his robes. Remus could see more of the tattoo ending on the palm of his right hand. What he really found interesting about the tattoos however, was that he couldn't read them. Well, actually he could, if he focused on them one at a time, but as soon as he tried to read the next one, he forgot the ones he'd read before. He just couldn't string the runes together to form a sentence, or even a word. The only thing he could think of was that there was some kind of secrecy spell on the runes, but then why get a tattoo if you didn't want anyone to read it, in a location that meant you would see it every time you looked in a mirror?

If he didn't want people to know what it said, then he didn't do it to 'look cool', or some other reason that involved the approval or admiration of others; he did it for himself. And to put it in such a prominent place ... either he was proud of it - in which case he would have no problem showing it off - or he wanted to make sure he would see it ... a reminder. Remus shuddered a little. What could have happened to make Azrael Hallows need a reminder? It was most likely at least tenuously related to the incident which killed Mr and Mrs Hallows. If Azrael Hallows was close enough to be effected by the potion, then it was possible that he watched his parents die, depending on the explosion, how quickly it could become lethal and whether or not the Hallows child was in close proximity to his parents when it exploded. If he had, Remus shuddered to think of the effect that could have on a child. It would not have been a pleasant thing to live through.

Remus thought sadly of the war. Plenty of people had suffered, and many more had watched their loved ones die, usually in some painful and inhumane manner. Remus himself had only seen the aftermath a great deal of the time since the Order of the Phoenix often arrived too late to help many people, but Sirius had been an Auror on the front lines during the height of Voldemort's power, and he sometimes still had nightmares about the things he'd seen. War affected everyone, weather they chose to fight or not.

Shaking his head slightly as though trying to dislodge such depressing thoughts, Remus turned his mind to other matters. Sirius was already at the school, having Flooed straight there earlier to set Patronuses around the school in preparation for the Dementor's arrival. Remus knew he was also planning a surprise for the new first-years first History of Magic class. Ever since Sirius had taken the post three years ago when Regulus had stared spending his days with a tutor, the class had become much more lively. Deputy Headmaster Flitwick had had to field a few complaints from some of the old families about how their children had been turned odd colours whilst in his classroom. Fortunately, with Sirius being from an old family himself, nothing ever came of it.

James and Lily were planning on arriving a little later and riding up in the carriages with the students, since both of them could produce a corporal Patronus and they would be passing close to the Dementors. Their son, Harry, would be on the train with all of the other students, despite his protests. Remus frowned as he considered the child he should have been able to love as much as Regulus. Harry Potter was nothing like his parents. He hadn't been as spoiled as James, but he was just as thoughtless, welding cruelty as a weapon that he didn't fully understand the consequences of.

Some of those consequences were directed at his son. Remus cast a worried glance at Regulus. His son had been open around Sirius and he, but Remus suspected that when Regulus was trapped at Hogwarts with no buffer between him and Harry, the young werewolf would retreat into himself again. Harry, the definition of Gryffindor, was not exactly subtle about his predjudices. The only reason his telling everyone about Remus and Regulus's condition hadn't got either of them banned from Hogwarts was the fact that Remus was life-bonded to Sirius Black and thus considered 'safe' and as a child, Regulus's immunity to magic hadn't fully developed. That, coupled with the Wolfsbane potion, made most people's attitude slide into grudging acceptance.

Regulus had always been a quiet child, but over the years he had become even more so. Watching him withdraw into himself to avoid the stares, whispers and occasional outright hostility had been painful for both him and Sirius, but at least Sirius didn't agonise so much over their son's situation - both his furry little problem and the lack of acceptance from his peers. Remus, however, tended to worry about how his son was doing at all hours of the day. He knew it irritated Regulus no end, but having been on the recieving end of hostile stares for years, Remus knew how much it could hurt. And he'd been an adult, after seven years of friendship and reassurance that he wasn't a monster. He could only hope that Regulus was a stronger person, and found his own friends who wouldn't care that he was a werewolf.

Remus sighed as he realised that he was once again dwelling on depressing subjects. Try as he might, he always seemed to be worrying about something.

"How are you doing on that Theory of Transfiguration essay I set, Regulus?" Remus asked to distract himself.

Regulus glanced up irritated, the lid of the inkpot held in his teeth and ink staining his fingers. "I can't work out why transfiguring wood into metal always requires the caster to stress the liquid sounds in a word while the wood to wood transfiguration require stressing the harsher constanants."

Remus smiled a little - he did enjoy teaching. "Mr Hallows, do you know?"

Azrael jumped a little and turned to look at him. "Know what?" He asked. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

"The teachers you met to evaluate your skill were quite impressed. Regulus has an essay and couldn't work out why wood to metal transfigurations stress the liquid sounds in a word while wood to wood transfigurations requires the caster to stress the harsher constanants, and I was wondering if you knew." Remus explained.

"It's to do with the nature of the material you're transfiguring." Azrael rattled off the information without really thinking about it. "Metal is smooth, and when melted it acts much like water, albeit at much higher temperatures, so to transfigure to metal you must stress the liquid sounds of the word, so that your magic will recognise the result you want more easily and you will not expend unnecessary energy. When transfiguring to wood you stress the harsher sounds because wood does not melt."

Remus felt his eyebrows rising. He'd expected an answer along the lines of 'It saves energy because magic understands what you want more easily.' Students didn't touch anything to do with the nature of the materials they were transfiguring until fourth year when they began working on the animate to inanimate transfiguration in preparation for OWLs.

"There are exceptions to the rule, obviously, and categorising things by whether or not they melt is a vast oversimplification - there's an ongoing debate about whether or not the environment someone is in changes the way someone should pronounce the spell." Azrael looked back at Remus and Regulus and took in their slightly stunned expressions. "Er ... I don't really know much more about that."

Actually, Azrael knew rather a lot more about that, as pronunciation was very important when transforming into your animagus form for the first time - like, get it wrong and you could die horribly, inside out, and half animal. That was why he didn't want Remus figuring out that he knew a lot about the steps for the animagus transformation - attempting it at fifteen had been dangerous for the Marauders, attempting it at thirteen would be suicidal. It might not be illegal for him since he was technically an adult, but he knew the teachers would at least try to talk him out of it, or worse, try to supervise him, and that would just be inconvenient - there was no way he'd be able to fake trying to retain his human mind in his animal body for the first time.

"That's absolutely correct." Remus said, recovering from his surprise. "Well done. Ten points to Ravenclaw, when we reach the school."

Regulus frowned a little. "Then what are the exceptions?" He asked Azrael. "And why are they exceptions?"

Remus hid a smile as he watched Azrael explain. It seemed that the Hallows Heir was far more animated when talking about a subject he knew well. Since it didn't look like they were going to start trying to kill each other anytime soon, Remus figured it was safe to go back to his book for the time being.

* * *

Azrael wondered if it wasn't worth just killing Regulus now. Remus's son had started asking questions forty-five minutes ago, and showed no signs of stopping. Normally, Azrael wouldn't mind - would probably even enjoy the opportunity to teach, even if he did have to dumb the material down so he looked a little more ordinary. Right now, however, he was running on three hours sleep and his nerves felt like someone had been dragging a bread knife over them. Being in a place that he knew, logically, didn't exist in his old world but did here was setting his teeth on edge. He kept looking out of the window expecting to see the same ruined platform as usual, only to see Kings Cross as it used to be.

Finally getting fed up of the never-ending questions, Azrael opened his trunk and pulled out a book titled _The Importance of Pronunciation in Modern Spellcasting_ and held it out to Regulus. "Here, this should answer any questions you have." Azrael offered.

Regulus took the book gently and looked up at Azrael, his gaze nothing but pure calculation for the barest moment of time. Then he smiled easily and opened the book, settling back into his seat to read.

Azrael stood dumbfounded for a moment before grabbing another book from his trunk, this one on Arithmancy, and pretending to read it to give himself time to think. What did that look of calculation mean? The smile Regulus gave afterwards seemed genuine, certainly more genuine than the strained smiles he'd been given when they were talking about Transfiguration. Azrael's best guess was that Regulus had decided not to dislike him after all. Either that or Regulus was someone else out to kill him. Azrael dismissed the possibility. He hadn't done anything worthy of notice yet, much less something an eleven year old would want him dead for.

Azrael sighed and stretched out a little, allowing his chin to drop onto his chest. He was really feeling the lack of sleep now he was on alert all the time instead of safe in Hallows Manor. He was probably okay to sleep for a few hours now, actually. Since he would almost certainly wake up from nightmares before they arrived at Hogwarts, Remus probably wouldn't try to wake him up and receive a knife to the neck for his troubles. He could control the nightmares enough not to wake up screaming, and the chances of being attacked were low.

Shifting around so he was a little more comfortable, Azrael allowed his eyes to droop. He was going to need rest if he had to put up with people surrounding him in the Great Hall.

* * *

Remus looked up from his book sometime after the train had begun to move - he had always lost awareness of anything going on around him when he was reading - to find his son's dark-haired head buried in a book that Remus didn't recognise. He smiled fondly. Regulus wasn't as fond of pranks as Sirius. Although he could give as good as he got when he was of a mind to, he tended to prefer more normal things; flying, playing with the Potter twins who are two years younger than Harry and much less prejudiced, and to Sirius's fake horror, reading. When Regulus did prank someone he tended to stay away from any of the usual methods or results, instead ransacking the library for one particular spell that Sirius - since it was usually Sirius who irritated Regulus to the point of retaliation - would never see coming.

Remus's smile turned wistful as he considered his son. As much as he would enjoy it if Regulus got into Gryffindor, the Professor suspected that his son was far more suited to Slytherin. Regulus didn't rush into a prank war as Sirius did; he much preferred to keep a list of every prank Sirius successfully pulled against him and wait until Sirius thought he wasn't going to retaliate. Then, Regulus would pull a series of pranks in one day that would make it impossible to do anything productive. If Regulus was feeling particularly peeved, those pranks on Sirius would start when he was hanging out with James or some of his other friends. That wasn't exactly a rush-in-without-thinking trait.

Not to mention that Harry was in Gryffindor. No, as much as Remus liked the thought of his son sharing a House with his parents, Regulus would not be able to fit in there. Harry Potter would see - had probably already seen - to that, ostracising Regulus from his peers before the werewolf had even arrived.

The Professor let his eyes slide left and rest on Azrael Hallows. The boy looked even younger now, with the weight Remus had barely noticed lifted from his shoulders. His book was resting tilted on his lap, barely a hair's breadth away from falling to the floor.

The growling in Remus's head softened a little, and Remus lowered the barrier in his mind that kept the wolf away from his thoughts, in so far as that was possible - he wanted to know why his wolf was acting strangely.

As always, Remus felt disorientated as he slipped into the mind of the wolf. Unlike humans, who at least tried to put some semblance of logic and order into their thoughts, the wolf's mind was a whirling maelstrom of emotions, thoughts and feelings, swirling around in a haphazard manner with no discernible pattern.

Centring himself as much as he could inside what amounted to a whirlwind of distractions, Remus let a memory of Azrael float out towards the wolf. _Why?_ He asked.

Remus braced himself just in time for the jumbled-up thoughts and emotions to hit him. Fear, awe, wariness, excitement. The main thing Remus could identify was the impression that Azrael was powerful. His wolf both feared that power being turned on them, and wanted to see what it could do.

The wolf's mind around his was frantic now, swirling with conflicting thoughts and emotions that battered at Remus's mind, tossing him around in a metaphorical washing machine. Out of nowhere, an image slammed into him with what felt like the force of a missile. Azrael, as he entered the compartment, surrounded by swirling, dancing lights. Silver, red, orange and black.

The wolf's voice rang in his mind, reaching from the ends of his toes to the roots of his hair. _The Changer._

Remus reeled back in his seat, breathing heavily. With a hand over his racing heart, he painstakingly raised the shields that gave him some measure of separation from the wolf.

Only one thought was running through his mind. _What the hell was that?_

* * *

Regulus did not like his wolf. How could he? It tried to take over his mind once a month, caused him agony, forced his body to change when he did not want it to, and was the reason for the ridicule and scorn that was directed at him. His life would be much better if he was not a werewolf.

Nor did he trust the wolf. It had better senses, but it reacted more on instinct than thought - something that Regulus had always thought to be rather unintelligent. He much preferred to be certain of an outcome before embarking on a course of action.

He was quite aware that his wolf considered Azrael Hallows dangerous - hence his admittedly rude greeting - but he had since come to the conclusion that plenty of people were dangerous, (Aurors, for example. They hunted Dark and dangerous wizards, they couldn't be pushovers - not having a spine was the Ministry's job.) just not dangerous to him. So long as he didn't commit a crime, he would have nothing to fear from Aurors. (At least theoretically. However, he was a werewolf, which put him in danger from any prejudiced Auror who found him anywhere near a crime - guilty or not.)

So, following this line of thought, he only had to be wary of Azrael Hallows if the third-year was a danger to him. With that in mind, he decided to pester Hallows with questions for as long as he could get away with and see how the boy reacted. His nose would tell him what Hallows felt; he was aiming for irritation. Once Hallows couldn't stand being pestered any more, Regulus would get to see how he reacted. Worst case, Hallows would attack him, which his father would notice and stop, even if he was reading right now. Best case, Hallows would tell him to stop asking questions, probably rudely.

Ten minutes later, Regulus got his opportunity and started questioning Azrael on Transfiguration. Much to his surprise, Azrael Hallows wasn't actually a bad teacher and Regulus had begun to enjoy the conversation. Not that that stopped him from deliberately annoying Hallows, of course. His nose was telling him that the third-year was getting more wound up by the minute, although none of that showed on his face. Hallows was probably a very good liar. Regulus made a mental note of the fact.

Moreover, once Hallows had gotten fed up, he had given Regulus a book with all the information the werewolf had been asking for, (instead of snapping at him or giving him a politely-worded piss off) then buried himself in another book before Regulus decided he'd rather ask questions than read. All the while, his façade had never cracked, not letting Regulus see how much self-control he was using to keep himself from snapping. Luckily for Regulus, he didn't need to see - he had a nose.

Regulus cracked open the book Azrael had let him borrow and started to read, absently deciding that Azrael probably wasn't a danger to him, if he could take that much irritation and not even show it. Really, he wasn't so bad. If he was that good at masks, Regulus privately reflected, eyeing Azrael's blue and bronze tie, then it was a wonder the boy wasn't a Slytherin.

* * *

Azrael first noticed something wrong when his regular, run-of-the-mill nightmare started frosting over.

Now, imagination being something not exactly encouraged by his 'relatives', Azrael tended to be very literal. His nightmares tended to be carbon copies of events that had actually happened, meaning that as soon as a deviation to the script he knew by heart and could recite backwards occurred, he was instantly on guard for threats approaching his outside body.

Given his current location, and the appearance of frost in his dreamworld, Azrael could only assume that the Hogwarts Express was nearing the end of its journey.

Azrael had wondered what to do about the Dementors - or more accurately, his ability to repel them. It was true that he had originally been able to repel them by the end of his third year, but then he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and besides, to the majority of the Wizarding World it was never more than a rumour. It would not do for Azrael, the ordinary student with a tragic past to stand out too much - or be hailed as a bloody prodigy. He had seen where that road led, and he didn't want to even think about it. There was no way he was going to reveal his power to so much as a single wizard if he could help it.

He probably couldn't. Bloody hero complex. Still, now was probably a good time to use the Slytherin traits that Draco had always waxed poetic about, and try to keep as many secrets as possible.

Secrets he wouldn't let anyone find out about. Secrets like him being capable of casting a corporeal Patronus.

Azrael shook his head and engaged his Occlumency, pulling himself up from his subconscious mind and into his mindscape, smiling slightly as he landed in the familiar room, Control.

"Is the train still moving, Computer?" Azrael asked in a business-like voice as he flipped switches and pulled levers.

"I have detected no decrease in speed as of yet, sir." Computer said evenly.

"So the Dementors are still pretty far out." Azrael thought out loud, briefly resting his forehead on the smooth metal of the panel, slightly vibrating with the hum of machinery beneath. "Shit. My sensitivity to them has increased again."

"You have experienced more bad memories since you were last exposed to them." Computer pointed out. "Draco co-ordinated with the other countries to trap them off British soil so they could no longer be used in the war. That was before Teddy's death."

Azrael flinched, before visibly gathering himself. "Right, raise Occlumency shields to maximum. Professor Lupin's Patronus will protect me from most of the effects, but not all."

"The consequences will be -" Computer began warning him blandly, but Azrael cut him off.

"I know what will happen, just do it!" Azrael yelled thumping one hand onto the console. "We don't have time for this."

"Yes, sir." Computer said professionally.

"Wake me up, Computer." Azrael said, before jerking and sitting up in his seat as he fell out of his own mindscape. Ignoring the sickening sensation of expecting to put your foot on the floor and only meeting empty air, he leaned forward and looked out of the window, eyes scanning intently for the shadow-cloaked figures he knew would appear.

Regulus noticed his behaviour first. "What are you looking for? We won't arrive at Hogwarts for a while yet."

Azrael didn't answer, but his whole frame tensed as his breath became visible. "Dementors." He hissed the explanation through clenched teeth.

Remus glanced at Azrael from the corner of his eye, brow furrowing into a frown as he stood and peered out of the window, looking for the Guards of Azkaban. Dementors effected the people with the worst memories the most; the fact that Azrael could sense their approach before they were even visible was worrying.

"How did you know they were coming? You were asleep." Regulus asked, bewilderment lacing his tone as he stared into the ominous fog, trying to pick out any of the Dementors.

"I'm a light sleeper." Azrael said flatly, his tone closing any further discussion. He pointed up to the top of the window, towards the front of the train. "Look."

The train jerked a little and began to grind to a halt, sinister black-cloaked figures emerging threateningly from the murk. Regulus pulled back from the window a little, his wolf whining in the back of his mind.

The lights flickered out.

"Lumos." Remus whispered, unwilling to speak normally in the tense environment, as if the Dementors would be drawn to anyone making too much noise. A dim light lit the carriage, cast deep black shadows. Azrael slumped back down into his seat as the window began to ice over, tightening his Occlumency shields as much as he dared in preparation for the screaming to come. Beneath him, the train shuddered as it finally stopped completely, Azrael shuddering in sympathy along with it. His heart beat wildly inside his chest, almost as much as it had when he'd walked to his death.

"They're getting on board the train." Regulus said. "Should they be getting on board the train?"

The edge of panic in the first-years' voice jerked Azrael's attention away from the Dementor's cold, which was rapidly sinking into his bones. He'd forgotten, in the wake of Regulus's hostility and irritating questions and questionable motives, that he was also a child. He seemed to have an edge of maturity, a comprehension of the world that most children lacked, that Azrael had overlooked the fact the Regulus - _Remus's son, (but not Teddy)_ Azrael didn't think he'd ever get over that - was only eleven.

Although he had to admit that he mostly spent time around adults, (when he spent time around anyone at all) and it probably wouldn't occur to him that he and the people around him were children if they weren't acting like it.

"Albus didn't mention that it was planned." Remus said grimly. "Unfortunately, if the Minister of Magic and the Wizengamot signed a document stating the Dementors need to search the train, then they aren't technically breaking the restrictions."

"I read about those in the Daily Prophet." Regulus said, seizing upon the opening to distract himself. "Someone petitioned the Wizengamot to leash the Dementors so the students would be safer, but it didn't mention who." The temperature plunged a few degrees and the ice on the window got thicker. Azrael noted absently that the Dementors were most likely moving down the train looking in each compartment one by one in the search for Bellatrix Lestrange. His Occlumency shields shook under the onslaught of despair.

"They wouldn't have published the petitioner's name. If the person petitioning the Wizengamot doesn't want the public to be aware of their identity, then the secrecy spells on the courtroom kick into action and stop anyone from communicating restricted information with the public. This is especially true of cases where a measure is passed for the safety of a minor of an old family. For instance it was most likely an old family that did the petitioning, and they might not want attention drawn to their family in case Bellatrix Lestrange has access to a newspaper."

Azrael flinched unnoticeably as ice drills dug through his Occlumency shields with freezing fingers and tried to riffle through his memories. He distracted himself by being glad that he had been able to keep his identity as the petitioner away from the public. God knows how many angry letters he would get berating him for limiting the protection around Hogwarts. Not to mention all the thankful letters from grateful parents.

"Why would Lestrange care if someone had restrictions placed on the Dementors?" Regulus asked with a false calm, eyes darting around as if he was expecting a Dementor to pop up in the carriage with them. "If anything, they'd benefit her."

"Bellatrix Lestrange has never been the sanest of people. There's always the chance that she could decide that whoever the restrictions were placed to protect has public sympathy and killing them would send a message. Besides, the reason I gave was just an example of why it might be dangerous to have everything out in the open, not necessarily the case in this instance." Remus explained. Noticing his son's shivers, he cast a strong warming charm over the compartment.

Azrael closed his eyes and pulled his legs up to his chest, futilely trying to pull up his failing Occlumency shields. His fingers dug painfully into his legs as he tried not to listen to the symphony of screams in the back of his head. In his mind's eye, flashes of people long dead and battles lost made themselves known. Flitwick, with his head half severed from his body. McGonagall, tortured then Transfigured into a rag doll in a mockery of her skills in life. Ginny and Colin Creevey, attacking him with blank eyes and the flesh rotting off their bones, the stench making him gag. Emmaline Vance and Mad-Eye Moody, who got captured and under torture, gave Voldemort false information that allowed the Order to kill off half of the original Inner Circle. A little blond girl, barely six years old, screaming in agony with Azrael watching, and nothing he could do. Himself, under the Imperius Maxima curse, his body moving around like a puppet.

"Expecto Patronum." Remus cast the Patronus charm, shooting a worried glance at Azrael as he did so. His wolf was growling louder than ever, though in response to Azrael or the Dementors, he didn't know. Azrael shuddered as the familiar eerie light surrounded him, giving him a little relief from the screams, although he didn't move from his defensive position.

Azrael shored up his failing Occlumency shields as the patronus gave him some relief from the Dementors, the screams gradually fading back to the point where he could ignore them.

After a tense ten minutes in which no-one said a word and Azrael shivered endlessly, the train finally gave a groan and began to move again. Remus kept his Patronus up as he rummaged in his pocket, pulling out three bars of Honeydukes chocolate and giving one Regulus before holding out another to Azrael. "Mr Hallows, please eat some chocolate. It will help."

Azrael shook his head without even looking up from his lap, knees touching his forehead and arms wrapped around his legs. Visible, full body shudders were wracking the small boy, but Remus was hard pressed to tell if it was from the cold or tears. Remus sighed before gently and firmly unclasping one of Azrael's hands and pressing the chocolate bar into his grip. Remus watched closely but saw no physical reaction; it was as if he hadn't even noticed. Remus stood up and turned to Regulus. "I need to check the other carriages." He said. "Make sure you eat that chocolate." He let his eyes flick over to Azrael and saw his son nod a little. Message received - Azrael would be watched.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

* * *

 **I'm finally done! Sorry for the huge delay, but after the fiasco with my laptop that I explained earlier, I got an awful cold.**

 **Also, this chapter is really long. Go figure. * _shrugs*_**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	12. Chapter 12 - Ravenclaw

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Hehehe, I got 100 reviews! A present for you all! And I'm sorry I haven't updated in ages, but we moved house and I spent a week washing down all the walls and then another week sleeping.**

 **Chapter 12 - Ravenclaw**

Azrael didn't bother trying to shield his face from the driving rain with his flimsy summer cloak. Attempting to stay dry in this weather was futile at best, and it wasn't like he could feel any colder. He followed the rest of the stampeding student body at a relatively leisurely pace, unbothered by the freezing cold water trickling down his neck or his sodden hair plastered to his forehead.

Regulus had slipped off to follow Hagrid to the boats with the rest of the first years - Azrael didn't envy him that trip - still sending Azrael covert worried looks and eyeing the chocolate bar that the Hallows' Heir hadn't yet eaten. Azrael ignored him, not in the mood to pretend to be fine. He felt cold - both inside and out - and although the pressure on his Occlumency shields had lessened now the Dementors were further away, his emotions were still pushed as far out of the way as possible, solely so he wouldn't collapse in floods of tears or something equally as embarrassing.

When he finally managed to make his way over to the carriages, most of the students had already left for the school, so he was able to snag one for himself - just as well really, considering he was in no fit state to make conversation right then. He started shuddering again as the thestral pulled him closer to the Dementor-guarded gates, but thankfully a phoenix patronus was circling the area, keeping the worst of them at bay. It was probably Dumbledore's, since few people besides the esteemed Headmaster could make a patronus this powerful this far from the caster. He had to admit that he was glad that he wasn't exposed to the full strength of the Dementor's cold again. His head was a disturbing enough place as it was without bad memories surfacing.

As he left the carriage and made for the warm and welcoming Entrance Hall, a wave of nostalgia engulfed him. For a moment he could almost believe that he was a child again, returning to Hogwarts after a gruelling summer at the Dursleys, or that he was returning to Hogwarts after the war to help with the clean-up so the school could open again. But then the absence of people at his side - either Ron and Hermione or Draco and Neville - shattered the moment of fond memories and the world felt larger and colder than before.

Azrael filed into the Entrance Hall with the rest of the students who took their time getting into the castle, including two redheaded twins Azrael immediately recognised as the Weasley twins who had their heads bent together with two other children, a boy and a girl. Azrael had never seen them before in his life, so he figured that they were killed before reaching Hogwarts or never born in his original world. Whoever they were, they looked to be mischief makers.

Before he could go into the Great Hall, however, Professor Flitwick appeared at his elbow. "Mr Hallows, Professor Lupin sent word that the Dementors affected you greatly on the train. The school nurse, Madam Pomfrey, wishes to check you over and discuss your medical history with you."

Azrael didn't even bother arguing, knowing that the mediwitch was like a dog with a bone when it came to potential patients. Nodding, he followed the tiny Professor as he lead the 'new' student towards a small room off the main hall.

A roaring fire filled the hearth, heating the room to a nearly uncomfortable degree that did nothing to warm Azrael inside. Three very familiar people were waiting there. Neville and Hermione - a very young Neville and Hermione - were seated on a couple of comfy armchairs, watching Madam Pomfrey warily as she cast diagnostic spells on Neville, clearly fuming as she muttered insults regarding the mental capabilities of the idiot who decided to place Dementors around a school.

"Madam Pomfrey, here is Azrael Hallows." Flitwick introduced. "Mr Hallows, this is our resident medi-witch Madam Pomfrey. She will be healing you if you suffer any minor injuries at Hogwarts."

Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him agitatedly. "Honestly, I don't know what goes through some peoples' heads." She huffed. "Are you suffering any aftereffects from the Dementors? Dizziness, nausea and headaches have been reported in particularly sensitive people."

"A headache." Azrael admitted grudgingly. Nodding determinedly, the medi-witch brought her wand up sharply to perform a diagnostic, only to freeze in surprise and no small amount of well-hidden horror as Azrael's weakened and failing Occlumency completely failed to stop the old war general from twitching away from her as though she had been about to attack him.

Azrael inwardly cursed and kept his eyes on the floor; he had not meant to do that, but at this point in the day after being hit hard by so many emotions, he hadn't a hope in hell of keeping himself collected. After the briefest moment of silence, Madam Pomfrey pulled her professional mask back in place and continued, hopefully before the other children in the room noticed what was going on.

She raised her wand to cast the diagnostic spell again, but she kept her movements steady and non-threatening, chattering away all the while. "Do you have any potions you must avoid or any allergies I should know about?"

"I'm completely immune to Dreamless sleep." Azrael said immediately. "I'm also mildly allergic to most potions containing a combination of lionfish spine and murtlap tentacle, though I can take them if necessary. They just give me a rash. There's also a list of potions I'm not supposed to take in my medical file."

Madam Pomfrey nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, on that note, may I have a copy of your medical file? It could be helpful to know your medical history in the event of an accident."

Azrael blinked at her, surprised. "Don't St. Mungos automatically send the medical files of any student over to whichever school they're attending for the same reason?"

"Normally, yes, but you're a legal adult so anyone asking for your medical file has to go through you, dear." Madam Pomfrey said.

Azrael felt like hitting himself on the forehead. "Of course. Dobby!" He called. The house-elf appeared with a pop. "Yes, Master Azrael sir?" He asked excitedly.

"Could you make a copy of my medical file and bring it here please?" Azrael asked. Dobby nodded and popped away without another word.

Neville made a startled noise and Hermione looked ready to explode. "How do you have Dobby?" Neville asked quickly, obviously trying to cut off his friend's rant. Hermione shot him a betrayed look, but Neville remained unmoved.

"He asked for work, so I hired him." Azrael shrugged. "If you mean how did he get freed from his previous owners, then I've no idea. He doesn't like to talk about them much."

"It's slavery!" Hermione burst out, staring at Azrael beseechingly.

"I pay him." Azrael said flatly. When Neville and Professor Flitwick looked at him in surprise, he shrugged again. "Dobby's a bit of an odd duck; he'll actually accept being paid. He drew the line at having time off, though."

Hermione deflated a little. "Oh." Before she could continue to object to the way house-elves are treated, Professor Flitwick stepped forwards. "Now, we don't have much time before the Sorting begins, so we need to continue. Mr Longbottom, are you feeling all right? Professor Lupin informed me that you fainted on the train."

"I'm fine, Professor." Red dusted his cheeks, embarrassed by the reminder. "Although, what did you mean by sensitivity earlier, Madam Pomfrey? You said that people with sensitivity suffer greater side-effects."

"Some people are affected by the Dementors more than others, dear." She said reassuringly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Seeing that Neville was completely unsatisfied with that answer, Azrael chimed in. "Dementors bring forward people's worst fears and memories. The worse your memories are, the more they can affect you. Extended exposure to Dementors results in you literally reliving the worst moments of your life, as if were actually happening right then." Seeing Neville and Hermione's face staring at him in mute horror, he added, "There's a reason everyone's so scared of them. Being given the Kiss by a Dementor - that is, having your soul sucked out - is thought to be a fate worse than death."

Professor Flitwick cleared his throat. "Yes, well ... if you're sure you're alright, Mr Longbottom, you should head for the feast. Miss Granger, will you follow me please? We have to discuss your timetable. Mr Hallows, please go to the feast as soon as you have finished discussing your medical history with Madam Pomfrey."

The door shut with a soft click behind them. Azrael sat in silence for a few minutes while Madam Pomfrey cast spells. Eventually the silence was broken by the loud crack of Dobby returning.

"A copy of your medical file, Master Azrael sir." He handed the file to Azrael and disappeared again.

Azrael held the file out to Madam Pomfrey, but didn't let go when she took it. "Patient confidentiality?" He asked.

"Of course." Madam Pomfrey said seriously. "I took an oath." After a beat longer, Azrael let go of the file.

"Thank you." The medi-witch said, looking at the overflowing file with various loose bits of parchment hanging out of it with trepidation. "I'd like to schedule an appointment with you later in the week to answer any questions I might have and so I can check that everything's working as normal. Is that alright for you?"

Azrael nodded. "That's fine. When?"

"After your last class on Friday, if that's alright with you. If you're not sure about where to find the hospital wing, just ask one of the portraits and one of them will point you in the right direction."

"Sure." Azrael stood. "May I go now?"

With Madam Pomfrey's permission and (unnecessary) directions, Azrael slipped into the Great Hall. The Sorting had already finished, and the students were chatting happily. Eyes scanning Ravenclaw table, Azrael noticed that there were no seats anywhere ... except near Luna Lovegood, who had a five-seat gap on either side and opposite her. Azrael nearly hissed in agitation. Could those idiots not see how much she was hurt by the way they ostracised her?

Azrael discreetly used a drying charm to get rid of the worst of the water before making his way over to the Ravenclaw table, sitting squarely opposite the small blond-haired girl. He ignored the surprise from both Luna and the other children seated at the table, serving himself a small portion of vegetables, sausages, and roast potatoes with gravy. Knowing he wouldn't be able to stomach any more than that, he didn't bother to add any of the Yorkshire puddings or stuffing to his plate.

He let his eyes wander as he ate, surveying the hall as he chewed slowly and pretended not to notice the curious looks sent his way.

The teachers table looked much as it ever did, albeit with a few new, and immediately recognisable faces. Professor Flitwick was sat in the Deputy Headmaster's chair, with McGonagall one seat down. Presumably, the Head of Ravenclaw had earned the spot rather than the stern transfiguration professor. Hagrid was there, presumably as the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, and it looked like Professors Snape, Babbling, Vector, and Sprout, all held the same positions as they had in Azrael's world.

The new faces he found were the unmistakable figures of Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, James Potter and Lily Potter sat eating and laughing with the other teachers. If he had to guess he'd say that Remus was the new DADA teacher, but for the other three he had no idea.

Azrael forced down the lump in his throat and tore his eyes away, moving down the table to rest on the Headmaster. The old man seemed to have his eyes fixed on Azrael for some reason, and Azrael had to stop a shiver from going down his spine at the impression of aching sadness the wizard was giving him. He was distracted from wondering why Dumbledore was looking at him like that when someone spoke to him.

"Excuse me?" The speaker was a boy in Azrael's year, Tony something, if he remembered correctly. "Are you the home-schooled student?"

Azrael nodded. "That's me. How'd you know?"

"Everyone knows." The boy said bashfully. "All the prefects were told, news spread on the train. Pretty much everyone has their own theory on why you missed the first two years."

"Oh?" Azrael raised an eyebrow, more amused than horrified - by a slim margin. "What's the leading rumours so far then?"

The boy took that as an invitation and threw himself into the seat next to Azrael. "There are a couple of ridiculous ones about how you've been training with either the Unspeakables or the Aurors to be Neville Longbottom's undercover bodyguard while Lestrange is on the loose. Most of Ravenclaw agrees that what the prefects were told by the teachers about how you were recovering from the effects of an exploding experimental potion is at least partly the truth, although a good number of us think that there's more to it. Harry Potter, in Gryffindor, thinks that you couldn't start Hogwarts when you were eleven either because you couldn't afford it, were too stupid to keep up with the material taught here, or were turned into a squib by the explosion, depending on how cruel he's feeling that day."

At Azrael's raised eyebrows and taken aback expression, the boy shrugged hopelessly. "Potter is arrogant and a bully. Ravenclaws tend to stay out of his way, as a whole, while nearly all of Gryffindor follows him like a flock of sheep. Hufflepuffs all hate him for picking on their first years but they never say anything to the teachers, and Potter tends to stay out of Slytherin's way, since the last time that arrogant brat irritated them Draco Malfoy humiliated him until Potter agreed to leave the house of snakes alone. Just keep your head down, he'll get bored after a couple weeks."

Azrael was distinctly unimpressed. If Potter (and one day he'd get used to addressing his alternate self by that name, but it wasn't today) even dreamt of trying to bully him, Potter would not like the consequences, of that much Azrael was certain. He didn't convince the Hat to put him in Ravenclaw to avoid house prejudice only for some bratty little boy to hate him because he was home-schooled for two years.

"My name's Azrael Hallows." Azrael said, pushing the subject away from Potter and conveniently getting him Tony something-or-other's name.

"Anthony Goldstein." The other boy finally introduced himself, holding out his hand for Azrael to shake, which he did.

After a few more minutes of meaningless chatter, Goldstein moved back towards his dinner and Azrael resumed eating. Azrael wasn't sad to see him go; the other Ravenclaw was not the best at subtlety and it was quite obvious that he'd been hoping Azrael would confirm or deny some of the rumours.

"You should be careful who you talk to, you know." Azrael looked up and into the impassive eyes of Luna Lovegood. "All that is gold does not glitter."

Azrael was startled. Had Luna always spoken in code? "I know." He agreed. "Have you read much Tolkien?"

Luna's eyes widened, just as startled as he had been when he realised she was speaking in code but not even half as good at hiding it. Azrael felt a pang of sadness as he wondered whether anyone else had even bothered to see if there was meaning behind her words before dismissing her as a lunatic.

Azrael smiled at her, a sad smile but a smile nonetheless, and held out his hand for her to shake. "Azrael Hallows. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Luna took his hand and pulled it closer to her as she inspected his palm. "Luna Lovegood." She said, not looking up from her inspection of Azrael's hand. After a minute of silence that by all rights should have been uncomfortable, she finally released him. "The nargles seem to dislike you."

Azrael shrugged helplessly, unable to stop a fond grin from spreading across his face. "They all got blown away." He explained, making an obscure reference to the potions explosion that he'd supposedly survived.

Luna hummed an odd tune before falling silent, content to leave things at that. Azrael let her have her space; she wasn't going to trust him instantly, and she wasn't used to having someone to talk to. He would be friends with her, but he wasn't going to force her to open up to him.

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable silence between Azrael and Luna, long practice making it easy to ignore the stares Azrael felt directed at him. The students would get bored eventually, since Azrael had no intention of doing anything remotely remarkable anywhere near ... anyone, actually. At least not while he looked like a thirteen year old, anyway.

As far as the Wizarding World was concerned Azrael Hallows was only the Lord of the House of Hallows. That meant that the Lord of Houses Peverell and Selwyn could be anyone, and Azrael had no plans to use those seats as a thirteen year old. The beauty of magic; you could look like anyone, at any age.

* * *

The Ravenclaw common room was tastefully done in blue and bronze, with deep mahogany furniture and a quietly crackling fire lighting the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw beautifully. Azrael noted absently that the windows were positioned to do much the same thing during daylight as his fellow students dispersed, most heading up to the dormitories while some of the older ones stayed downstairs to catch up now the irritating younger years had all gone off to bed. Azrael himself didn't head up just yet, more interested in familiarising himself with the common room.

The Ravenclaw dormitories were laid out in the same manner as the Gryffindor dormitories, with a separate entrance for boys and girls. Around the edge of the room half-hidden in alcoves, were doors that Azrael knew led to private studies that students could claim. There weren't enough rooms for everyone to have their own, so usually people claimed them in groups of two or three.

There were several comfy chairs clustered around the fire, probably for the rare times that the students allowed themselves to stop studying. Scattered around the remaining space in the room was large circular bookcases, all placed so they were similar distances apart. Around each bookcase was five tables designed to seat six, and Azrael guessed that the bookcases held basic books for each course so the Ravenclaws didn't have to continually go to the library just to look up basic facts.

Picking his way over to the windows, Azrael stared out across the grounds. Unlike Gryffindor Tower, which actually wasn't that tall, Ravenclaw Tower was the third tallest in the school, after the Astronomy Tower and the North Tower that housed the Divination teacher. Simply put, the view was spectacular. From here, he could see the edge of the Black Lake and a broad swathe of the Forbidden Forest far in the distance, though Azrael suspected that even in full daylight Hagrid's hut would only be a blot on the horizon. Moreover, because Ravenclaw Tower was on the other side of the school from the Forbidden Forest, Azrael found himself looking out across the school. He could make out the silhouettes of several towers against the clouds now that the pouring rain had stopped, even through the gloom that had fallen with night. The roofs of Hogwarts, disjointed and asymmetrical, were spread out below him like a map. The small spires and jutting edges, the dips and crests, the gaps where the courtyards are and the gargoyles like handholds were arranged with no apparent goal in mind, sprawling in a confusing jumble of stone.

It had been a long time for Azrael since Hogwarts had felt so safe, lacking the sombre mood that had lingered in the school even after the bodies had been removed in Azrael's own world. It almost made him feel like it was worth having the Second War hanging over his head.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and Azrael turned his head sharply towards where he knew the Hogwarts gate to be. Try as he might, he couldn't see anything else through the darkness.

Casting a speculative eye around him and seeing that no-one else was paying attention to the lone third-year, Azrael discreetly withdrew his wand and whispered the spell for night-vision, tapping his temple twice as he did so. After a moment, colour filtered away and all he could see was the strange, flat green of the night-vision. Squinting into the distance, Azrael caught sight of what had drawn his attention in the first place.

The Dementors were swarming angrily outside the gate, obviously upset by Dumbledore's refusal to allow them entrance. Occationally Azrael could see one of them bouncing off the wards, like the foul creatures were trying to push themselves through.

Azrael shuddered and ended the spell, cold digging it's way into his soul with new ferocity. He had never liked Dementors, even before he'd fought a war, but now ... he had so much to fear.

Turning his back on the window (and the Dementors outside) he made his way up the stairs into the boys dormitory. The only bed left unoccupied was thankfully at the edge of the room, with a wall on one side so he wouldn't be surrounded. He was furthest from the bathroom, the window and the door, but that was fine; the window and the door were the best entry points for an attack and he had no particular desire to place himself in the line of fire. As for the bathroom, he got up early enough that it wouldn't matter how close or far he was, since no one else would be awake.

The Hallows Heir opened his trunk and pulled out the comfy sweats he slept in. Unlike the rest of his wardrobe, where he preferred to have some form of style (no matter how eccentric) when he was sleeping he chose comfort over appearances. He also pulled out a set of four throwing knives in a charmed unnoticeable sheath. Quickly stashing the knives under his pillow, he took out his wand and started to whisper protections around his bed. Identification ward, trip ward, hostile intent ward and more. Unfortunately he couldn't risk putting up anything above the level of an advanced third-year, but there was still a hell of a lot you could do with simple wards if you used a bit of imagination.

Climbing in, Azrael pulled the curtains shut and cast one final silencing ward before stowing his wand back in his holster and retreating under the covers, allowing himself to drop off into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Azrael wasn't terribly surprised when he woke up screaming four hours later. As expected, he Occlumency shields had fallen completely while he was sleeping, and he was swamped with all the emotions he'd been pushing back.

He threw off the covers and ran a shaking hand through his hair, returning the throwing knives to their hiding place (he had reached for them out of panic and long habit as he woke) and dispelling the silencing charm he'd placed around his bed. He still felt freezing cold from the Dementors, and the nightmares hadn't lifted his mood any. Sighing, Azrael pulled out the chocolate bar Professor Lupin had given him and ate it piece by piece, grimacing at the sugary sweet taste and banishing the wrapper once he'd finished.

Creeping out, the Hallows Heir walked on tiptoes to the bathroom, shutting the door silently behind him and casting another silencing charm so he wouldn't wake up his new roommates while he showered.

Once he was dressed once again in his Hogwarts robes, Azrael walked to his trunk and pulled out the file of paperwork Griphook had given him concerning the money and lordships he'd inherited, including the companies that they had controlling shares in. Grabbing a quill and a pot of ink as he went, he didn't bother to take the bag containing all of his school stuff with him; he'd come back for it after breakfast.

He slipped through the dark halls, not needing a light to navigate the castle that he knew better than the back of his hand. Azrael made it to the Great Hall without incident, slipping into the large room and settling himself on Ravenclaw table.

A flick of his wand lit a couple of candles above him and gave him a pool of light to work with. Spreading out the papers around him, Azrael cast an obscuring charm on the crests so anyone stumbling upon him wouldn't see that he had ties to more than the House of Hallows, before opening the inkwell and picking up the first sheet of parchment.

He'd always hated paperwork, but that didn't necessarily mean that he was bad at it.

* * *

The problem Azrael had always had with sitting still for long periods of time was that after a while, he wanted nothing more than to go out and fly, or take a walk, or do something that didn't involve books and a large amount of parchment. This particular trait dated back to his cupboard, because while he'd never been claustrophobic, he'd also never found being trapped in a small space particularly appealing. It was part of the reason he liked flying so much - it was exactly the opposite of his bedroom for ten years of his life.

He'd learned to cope with it, during the war when he was on stakeout and had to remain in a small room for days without using magic. It was that or be discovered and killed. The skill had served him well later, when he sealed himself inside Grimmauld Place and only left occasionally to fly at night, and he was sure that had the war ended when he was seventeen as it was supposed to then he wouldn't have been able to stand staying cooped up for so long. Then again, if the war had ended when he was seventeen then he probably wouldn't have wanted to lock himself away.

Azrael wondered how well he would cope with the homework the teachers would heap on him, on top of everything else he was trying to manage.

First, there was his project to set up a spy network, which meant research into basically everyone. Then there was his plan to make a different name and face for the Lord of House Peverell so he could do things politically alongside Richard. He also had to make sure that Neville wasn't killed by Lestrange - unlike Sirius, she actually was a mass-murderer. Finally, he had to continue to monitor Shades politics; so far only a few people had tried to harm children after he laid down the law (so to speak), but eventually someone would be either brave or stupid enough to try anyway, and Azrael would be forced to teach them another lesson.

He could only be thankful that being of age meant he was allowed to come and go as he pleased as long as he showed up for lessons, otherwise he would never have time to do everything.

Azrael looked up from the table as the doors clanked open, someone else slipping in and closing it gently behind them. Unless someone else grew grey hair overnight, Dumbledore was up at - Azrael checked the time - six in the morning.

The Headmaster turned around and walked down the aisle towards Azrael's little pool of light, not looking at all surprised to see one of his students up at this hour. Azrael wondered if Dumbledore had expected him to be awake for some reason, or if the Chief Warlock just had a good poker face.

"Mr Hallows." The Headmaster greeted with a small smile on his face, sharp eyes taking in every aspect of his student's appearance. Azrael wondered what he saw; The Hallows Heir had no idea how fool proof his cover story truly was, and he had no desire to test it against someone who was renowned for, among other things, his intelligence.

"Headmaster." Azrael dipped his head in acknowledgment, before continuing to neatly tally up figures on the parchment scattered around him.

"That looks like an interesting project." The Headmaster noted, blue eyes twinkling down. "I can't think of many people who would willingly take on such a task so early in the morning, however."

Azrael shrugged noncommittally, uncertain as to how he wanted to reply. He could rightly say that it was none of Dumbledore's business what he did with his free time, especially when he was doing paperwork concerning the finances of an Ancient and Noble House, but that would sound prickly and defensive and as though he had something to hide. He could tell Dumbledore about everything he was doing, but that would probably lead to some awkward questions. Or, he could just try to evade Dumbledore's not-quite-questions with not-quite-answers of his own.

"It's just a few companies I have a majority share in; most of the files haven't been looked at in years and some of the figures are looking a little dodgy." Truth. "I'm trying to clear it before homework starts accumulating." Sort of true.

Dumbledore chuckled. "If only some of our O.W.L students showed the same dedication to clearing out the paperwork. I'm sure they'd have much more free time during daylight hours."

 _Translation: Paperwork at six in the morning?_ Azrael thought sourly. "It passes the time." He said shortly. He did not want to talk about his nightmares.

Dumbledore hesitated, and glancing up at him Azrael detected a flicker of the same sorrow he'd seen Dumbledore display during dinner. Something in Azrael's eyes must have warned him off, though, because his expression returned to its usual twinkling self.

"Well, far be it from me to deter a student from hard work." The Headmaster watched for a moment with an indecipherable expression as the child bent back over the piles of parchment, before finally striding away.

* * *

 **Finally done! So, this one's longer than usual, but I figured that was only fair when I took so long to update.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	13. Chapter 13 - School - An Indefinite Hell

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 13 - School - An Indefinite Hell**

Azrael shoved the papers he'd been poring over back into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he stood. It was nearing seven o'clock in the morning on Friday the second of September, and soon the first students would be making their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Given that he had no desire to raise eyebrows over his early rising and paperwork-tackling habits, Azrael thought it best that he make his way to the dorms and get everything he would need for the day before heading down to breakfast with all the other students.

The riddle the knocker presented him with was easy - the answer was green - and if he didn't know better he'd say the knocker was disappointed that he was able to pass so easily. He idly wondered if the knocker liked to challenge people, or if it was just sadistic. It wouldn't really surprise him either way. Hogwarts really wasn't the safest place in the world, even without the regular dark lord plots and occasional escaped prisoner. There was a reason the school had it's own mediwitch, and that reason was because it was cheaper to pay to have someone in school full time that to pay for all the Floo powder for trips to St Mungos.

He slipped through the quiet common room. People were already dressed and filtering down from the dorms, though they seemed divided between those who were waiting for breakfast to wake up properly and those who were already awake and reading. Several groups of fifth year students were conversing in small groups while they tried to decide what they'd need. The seventh year students didn't bother doing the same; undetectable extension charms were a wonderful thing.

Sitting in a corner, Luna Lovegood was pressed with her back to the wall, reading a copy of the Quibbler upside down. Azrael noticed with immediate irritation that she was barefoot already, but refrained from going over. If he pushed too hard, she might think that he had an ulterior motive for being her friend, and he didn't want to ruin his chances. He could always find her at breakfast, assuming the other Ravenclaws isolated her like that all the time.

The war general paused for a moment as that sank in. He _didn't know_ whether Luna was treated like a leper all the time - and he should have. How isolated had he been at school to not hear about strange Loony Lovegood through the school grapevine?

Very isolated, he realised. In his first year everyone had been whispering about him, seemingly to the exclusion of all else, so he'd simply ignored it. He hadn't tried to change anything in his second year, continuing to ignore rumours and stories, especially after everyone had considered him to be the heir of Slytherin. Third year everyone had been going on about the Dementors causing him to collapse, fourth year was the conflicting opinions the students had on his admission to the Tri-Wizard Tournament, fifth year popular opinion was that he was crazy, sixth year people were more concerned with the dark lord, and seventh year he'd been on the run. All of that had trained him to ignore a large portion of what was going on around him.

It was a mistake he couldn't afford to repeat. Blinding himself to what was going on around him was a dangerous course of action that he couldn't afford, especially with the beginning of the Second War looming.

Despondently, he added another item to his to-do list. Find a way to monitor interesting events and goings-on in the castle. The Marauder's map might help, if he could find it, but it was most likely in the hands of Harry Potter, which could be difficult if he was as much of a brat as Anthony Goldstein seemed to think. He could simply steal it if no other means presented itself, but there was always the issue of possibly being caught with it later. Honestly, it would be easier to make a new one. He could also upgrade it, maybe something that detected harmful intent?

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Azrael climbed the stairs to his dorm, ignoring the sleepy movements of his roommates as he stored the papers in a secure compartment of his trunk and packed everything he would need for every subject he would be taking, since he didn't know what lessons he had yet. Once he was done he grabbed the bag and made his way down alone, making no effort to talk to his peers. He wasn't here to make friends, barring Luna and anyone else who needed a friend.

Sighing, he made his way to breakfast. Azrael needed to make sure he ate enough to keep his energy up, especially as he was still planning to train for a couple hours a day. Hopefully, a constant and balanced diet would also allow him to grow an extra inch or two - he'd barely been medium originally, which while not massively disadvantageous in battle, made it hard to appear intimidating if necessary. At this point, he'd take every advantage he could get.

Professor Flitwick handed out their timetables, and Azrael eyed his schedule for the day dispassionately. Potions with Hufflepuff, History of Magic (Ravenclaw only), Ancient Runes last and Astronomy at midnight with Slytherin.

History of Magic was marked down as being taught by Professor Sirius Black, he noticed, and suddenly that subject looked a lot more interesting. Potions was bound to be eventful because Azrael knew that Professor Snape would push him to see how much the Hallows Heir knew. He'd never taken Ancient Runes at Hogwarts (now taught by Professor Lily Potter) and Astronomy should be fairly quiet due to the late hour and the fact that Ravenclaws and Slytherins generally didn't have a problem with each other.

Azrael polished off the last of his mushroom omelette, folding his timetable and storing it in his pocket before leaving. Luna had only showed up for a couple of minutes, skipping up to Professor Flitwick to collect her timetable before skipping off again, never touching any of the food. He wondered if the blond girl knew where to find the kitchens or if she simply ate that little.

Unsurprisingly, he didn't get lost at all on the way to the potions classroom despite the years since he'd last been there. He was the first to arrive, so he picked a desk in the middle of the room and withdrew several potions texts, only one of which was actually required. He also withdrew a black book marked three - his potions journal - and began carefully transferring information on making potions into the book. He was vaguely aware when people began to filter into the classroom, but beyond inconspicuously setting a proximity alarm, he didn't stop what he was doing.

He only set down the quill when Professor Snape barged into the room with a dramatic bang, closing the books scattered around him so the prickly Professor couldn't accuse him of failing to pay attention.

"I have no doubt," the Potion's master nearly whispered, "that many of you have failed to refresh your potions knowledge over the summer holidays, and your forgetful little minds likely cannot recall the correct way to brew even the simplest of second year potions, so we shall be making the Swelling Solution that you were examined on at the end of last year." Snape flicked his wand and the instructions began to write themselves on the board. "You have one hour. Begin." There was shocked silence for a second before everyone scrambled to get to the cupboard, desperate to get started as soon as possible.

"Mr Hallows." Snape called, and Azrael looked at the dark teacher again. "You will work on your own so that I may get an accurate measure of your skill."

Azrael nodded, his expression not changing in the slightest despite how much harder the professor had just made his life. His classmates would probably get the potion in on time if they worked hard, but Azrael had essentially been given twice the work since he had no-one to share it with. Around him, his classmates were giving him pitying looks, kindly moving out of his way and letting him get to the ingredients first when he stood and went to the cupboard.

He wondered how much pity they'd be feeling when he turned in his potion first.

The Hallows Heir set up his potions gear on autopilot, eyes distant as he ran through the instructions in his mind. He filled the cauldron up with the base before setting it to the correct heat, absentmindedly casting very basic spells to prevent outside objects from interfering with his potion as he pulled the first ingredients towards him, pulling out the correct blade without even looking at the block as he began to dice. Azrael's lips moved slightly as he counted down the three minutes till the first ingredients had to be added.

Having the skill and knowledge to correctly and adequately prepare ingredients while a potion was ongoing (and therefore under a time limit) was a good skill to have in potion-making. Being able to do it without a partner (and therefore having to stir and adjust the temperature of the potion while preparing other ingredients in a limited amount of time) was what made potions masters. Azrael doubted he would ever achieve that status purely because he lacked the inventiveness that the position required, but that didn't mean that he couldn't multitask with the best of them. He soon settled into rhythm, falling into the familiar motions easily.

It'd been a long time since he'd worked in a school environment and several explosions nearly made him fumble, as did one particularly complicated series of steps that he'd had to hurry to complete in time, since he hadn't prepared everything beforehand. Still, he pulled through, and once it was over he sat back and flexed his aching hands. He was out of practice at multitasking like that, he reflected wryly. When he brewed potions at home he had all the time he needed, which meant that he took the time to dice all the ingredients well before they were added. Far less risk of accidentally blowing things up that way. Of course, that just meant that he'd been neglecting to practice preparing ingredients within a time limit, and now he could barely complete a second-year potion without causing an explosion.

Azrael would add practicing that particular skill to his list of daily training if he hadn't caught the look on Snape's face when he sat back to let the Swelling Solution simmer for the next ten minutes. The Potions Master would not let this go; if there was one thing Severus Snape hated it was waste, and one way or another he'd ensure that Azrael was pushed to the limits of what he could do.

The Hallows Heir wasn't sure what to think about that, although if there was an area that it would be safe to shine in, it would be Potions. He could only be glad that he was so out-of-practise; mistakes would make him look more normal, and he didn't doubt that Snape had caught on to his near-errors.

He bottled the Solution once it had cooled enough to do so, taking it up to the front in a small vial and ignoring the disbelieving and somewhat envious looks he was receiving. Snape held the vial to the light for a moment, before nodding curtly and setting it aside. "Find something to occupy yourself with till the lesson ends." He dismissed. Azrael turned back to his workstation and started packing up, cleaning off the table and cauldron before stowing his kit away. He didn't know why Snape had told him to wait rather than simply letting him leave as he tended to do with those who finished early, but he supposed it was either because Snape wanted to see what he would do or he was planning to talk to him after class had ended.

He pulled out the potions texts and his potions journal and continued to work on the book of his own creation as he waited for class to end. He didn't want to give the Professor reason to dislike him, after all, and he was almost certainly going to disapprove if Azrael started reading a Quidditch magazine or something.

Azrael had managed to fill another couple of pages by the time the bell rang and there was a rush to get to the door. "Two feet on the usage and dosage of Swelling Solution and the dangers of overdosing, due Tuesday." Professor Snape called out. "Mr Hallows, a word."

Not at all surprised at the order, Azrael hung back as everyone else filtered out. "Yes, Professor?" He asked.

Snape studied him for a moment with glittering black eyes. "I expect you to always work to the standard you displayed today in future, Mr Hallows. I will not tolerate laziness in my class." He sat back. "You will also give me a second essay the ingredients used in the Swelling Solution and how they interact. I will not ask you to confine yourself to a specific length, but I do expect your work to be clear, concise and detailed without prattling on for inches longer than necessary. Dismissed." He turned to the piles of parchment on his desk and Azrael left, knowing better than to disturb the man now.

It was odd, Azrael mused, but he'd never have expected Snape to essentially demand he complete extra credit work before threatening dire consequences should he fail. It was almost a complement; from someone like Snape, it was probably as close to a complement as he knew how to give. Kind words did not come easily to that man.

Azrael managed to make it into the History of Magic classroom just in time, sliding into a seat at the back. Curiously enough, everyone looked very awake and even eager for the class to start, and he wondered if these children had ever been subjected to Binns, or if Sirius had set down ... penalties ... for anyone who fell asleep or stopped paying attention. Possibly both. Azrael had no doubt that his once-godfather's warped sense of humour would be inflicted on his students one way or another, and it would be just like Sirius to charm someone to speak in rhymes for falling asleep in class.

Sirius - Professor Black, Azrael reminded himself - strolled in, carrying rolls and rolls of parchment. "Hello class!" He beamed. A flick of his wand sent a scroll to each student. "Same exercise as the first lesson last year, if you can remember that far back - you'll find a name and the outline of a person on your scroll, and I want you to fill that outline with as much information as you know about that person. If you run out of space, don't worry, just list the most important bits. While you do that I'll take roll - you have fifteen minutes. These are all people you should have studied before, so you shouldn't have too many problems."

Azrael unrolled his scroll, biting back a laugh when he saw the name at the top - Nicolas Flamel, unwitting instigator of at least two goblin wars, and someone he'd heard quite a lot of from Hermione. She'd felt guilty about the destruction of the stone so made an effort to learn as much as possible about the Flamels, a great deal of which the Hallows Heir had picked up. Reaching for his quill, he made a mental list of what he knew about the great alchemist, before editing out the useless and boring facts, though he did add some of the interesting and little-known trivia purely for entertainment value. Somehow he suspected that Sirius wouldn't be thrilled by having to wade through paragraphs and paragraphs of tiny writing about boring facts, and to be particularly honest, he wasn't particularly inclined to write it.

Sirius cheerfully Summoned all their papers once the fifteen minutes was up, completely ignoring everybody's complaints. "Right, that should do as a warm-up exercise. Now, when I point to you I want you to tell me an interesting fact about the person you were given, and give me the name of a person you don't know much about."

Off it went. Azrael almost enjoyed the class, different as it was to most methods of teaching. First they were saying something interesting about the person they were given, and then something interesting about the person that someone else was given (with a ten second time limit between being given a name and needing to recite a fact). If you failed to answer then you lost one point for your house, and if you failed to answer within the time limit then you had to stand on your chair for one minute while having to answer questions about various figures from history. All in all he found it very engaging, although he was thankful that Sirius didn't seem to tolerate any form of bullying in his classroom. A mistake in that sort of exercise was something that you could very easily be bullied for.

They all filed out of the room when the bell rang, most of the students chattering excitedly away as everyone made their way down to lunch. Azrael slipped into a secret passage at the first opportunity, eager to escape the press of bodies. He'd done well so far, suppressing his war-honed instincts to the best of his ability, but the noise and the constant presence of people around him was driving him crazy, long practise forcing him to try and keep tabs on everyone within attacking range - which meant nearly everyone. It was giving him a headache trying to be aware of so many people at once, and although Snape's class required people to focus on their own work or risk an exploding caldron and Snape's wrath, Sirius's class meant having all eyes on him. Not a sensation he enjoyed, especially given all the curious staring the other students were doing.

Azrael sighed, breath disturbing the dusty passage, and closed his eyes as he registered the silence around him. His shoulders loosened a little, and after a moment the Hallows Heir continued on. He'd eat lunch as quickly as possible (he'd never been fond of a big daytime meal anyway) before heading up to the higher floors to get some peace and quiet until Ancient Runes started.

Peace and quiet wasn't exactly what he found.

Hearing voices ahead, Azrael slowed. He really didn't want to interact with anyone else right now, but instead of leaving, he hesitated. There was something about the indistinguishable words, something sharp and cruel.

A bout of mocking laughter echoed down the corridors, making Azrael's decision for him. He didn't like bullies. The Dursleys, Draco as a child, Voldemort, even James Potter and occasionally Snape were just glorified bullies, and he'd had enough.

Strolling around the corner, he pretended that he'd had no idea there was anyone there, pulling off a textbook I-wasn't-expecting-to-see-anyone-here surprised face when the students turned to look at him.

He noticed Regulus first, green tie standing out against his pale face. So Remus's kid had gone into Slytherin, Azrael noted with a small corner of his brain as the rest catalogued the child's defensive stance, mussed clothing and ripped bag, books scattered across the floor. Then he noticed the boys around the young werewolf - Dean and Seamus and a messy black-haired boy with vivid green eyes and an arrogant smirk. Harry Potter, Azrael presumed. He supressed a shudder. Dear Merlin, was this who Azrael would be if his parents had lived? He hoped not.

"Oh." Potter said, and the dawning recognition and gleeful anticipation in that one word spelled trouble, Azrael knew it. "You're the home-schooled student." The smirk widened, and Azrael fought to keep his face blank and polite. He doubted it would look good if he got into a fight on the first day, and it would attract more attention than he wanted, but he used to be a Gryffindor and some habits were hard to shake off.

It occurred to Azrael, as he tried to think of a way to defuse the situation safely, that it was possible that Regulus himself was part of the reason he was doing this. Regulus was (almost, nearly) Teddy's brother of a sort, after all. Azrael didn't think he'd ever be able to wipe out the debt he owed _his_ Remus for failing to save Teddy, but helping Regulus was a good place to start.

"You must be Harry Potter." Azrael said.

"Yep." Harry said, sauntering towards him. Dean and Seamus copied their leader, attempting to appear intimidating. "You must be the home-schooled student." Azrael noted the way Harry said 'home-schooled' as if it were dirty. This other version of himself was a complete arse. For the first time ever he found himself somewhat grateful to his life. He might be a murderer, but at least he wasn't a close-minded useless bigot.

"I am." Azrael said, before switching his gaze to Regulus, who was looking at him with a curiously blank expression. "Hello again, Regulus. I see you got sorted into Slytherin. Congratulations."

Regulus nodded in acknowledgement, but his eyes flickered over to Harry and it didn't take a genius to see that he was afraid of what the third-year Gryffindor would do.

Harry frowned, an ugly snarl taking over his face as he stepped into Azrael's personal space and shoved him lightly, forcing Azrael to take a step back to avoid falling over. "D'you know what that is? That's a werewolf." He snapped, face inches away from Azrael's. "If that weren't bad enough, it's a Slytherin as well. It's probably evil already!"

Azrael stared impassively into Harry's emerald eyes, blood beginning to boil because no-one deserved to face that kind of cruelty, least of all Remus Lupin's son. He didn't really believe what he was saying, the Hallows Heir could see that and it was the only thing that saved Harry from a painful fist to the face, anonymity be damned. It was just a lever to pull that would keep Regulus below Harry, that would make him feel better about himself. Azrael idly wondered what had made Harry feel insecure enough to bully others for the sake of lifting his own self-esteem, before dismissing it. Regulus was more important right now.

"I don't have a problem with werewolves." Azrael commented blandly. "I've always found prejudice against them rather stupid actually, since it isn't that hard to control and it isn't the victim's fault that they were bitten." He stepped around Harry and walked over to Regulus, a sweep of his wand sending all his books back into his bag and another jab repairing the bag itself. "As for prejudice against Slytherins, I am reluctant to believe that people are inherently evil simply because they have a particular mind-set. Indeed, if I hadn't desperately wanted to avoid being caught up in ridiculous house rivalry over the most trivial of things then I might have ended up there myself." With that last parting shot, he led Regulus down the hall away from the third years.

The entire time they had their backs to Harry Azrael had his senses on high alert, waiting for a spell to soar towards their apparently unprotected backs, but it never came. The Hallows Heir knew better than to hope that that was the last they'd hear from Harry, though. He mentally sighed and added that to the list of his problems to deal with later. School was quickly becoming his new hell.

* * *

 **Still not sure about the bit with Harry in it. I've had the rest of this (that is to say, most of it) written for ages now, but I couldn't quite picture the ending. Sorry about that. Really very sorry. I shall try harder in future.**

 **Shib. :)**


	14. Chapter 14 - A Toe Out Of Line

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 14 - A Toe Out Of Line**

Azrael strolled through the dark streets of the Shades, armed to the teeth and in full paranoia mode, late in the evening of the 2nd of September. McGonagall had been surprised when he requested the use of her Floo, but he was legally allowed to leave the school so long as he did not miss any lessons without citing a valid reason, so she made no attempt to hinder him.

Unfortunately, that meant that he only had a few hours left before Astronomy began, which he had to be back at Hogwarts for. Still, it couldn't be avoided. He had urgent business to attend to in the Shades, even if he had not intended to return just yet.

He slipped inside a half-hidden door in the wall of a back-alley, glad to have reached this (relatively) safe haven in a lawless world that only respected cruelty and fear. Bert's was one of the very few places that he would dare to call safe, being a pub that had been declared neutral ground by the four Lords. Anyone breaking that peace was dealt with - painfully - and Bert's was one of the best places to exchange information outside of the Archive of the Lords and the big guilds, who operated in social circles of their own and would never be seen in a place like this, so people tended to leave the place out of their disagreements.

Azrael slipped between the tables soundlessly, eyeing the armed patrons even as they eyed him back. He was small in stature, thanks to being thirteen again, and he knew that people here would think him weak for his age. It was one of the reasons he wore a hooded and charmed cloak that only let others see his unsettling eyes. It certainly wasn't to hide his identity; down here, most everyone knew of him. He could blame the Third Lord's fascination with him for that, but to be honest it wasn't like he was particularly accomplished at keeping his head down. The Gamman Massacre that he orchestrated, for instance, even if only the Four Lords and those under his employ were aware of his involvement.

Not bothering to so much as greet the girl behind the bar, the Hallows Heir slipped into the back room, knowing that he was welcome. Bert, the owner of the establishment (though he preferred to be called Al) had made it quite clear that he certainly approved of Azrael's actions, and that he was always willing to trade information with the young man. It was quite the complement and helped Azrael's standing among the patrons of Bert's by no small amount, especially since Al had a habit of refusing to trade with those who betrayed the terms of any agreements they made on his property. When Al had said that he would always be happy to trade with Azrael, he had basically said that he believed Azrael would never betray the terms of an agreement that he made.

Since Al's opinion carried quite a lot of weight, Azrael had gained a reputation for being trustworthy. A good thing, since unreliable people tend to be killed off once a job is done. He had been careful to cultivate his reliability by accepting a few relatively simple contracts to kill off utter assholes, completing the jobs in a timely and efficient manner. It hadn't taken long for the knowledge of the prodigy child who was practical to the extreme to spread across the population.

Practical. That was the mask he had chosen to show to the Shades. Someone who would do what the job required, no more or less. Someone who would kill off enemies before they became a threat because it was prudent. Someone who would fulfil the terms of a contract simply because betraying a contract would have troublesome consequences.

There were days that Azrael really hated every measure he'd been forced to take to win the war. He'd never wanted to be _practical,_ and yet that was what everyone here knew him for.

At least he was known for something he actually had done, distasteful as it was.

He spotted Al lounging by the fire and made his way over, shedding his cloak as he went. Azrael knew he didn't need it here.

The back room was designed more for comfort than business. Apart from Azrael and a few trusted others, anyone who wanted to do business in here had to be invited. There was several comfy chairs scattered across the room, as well as a lush carpet and a heavily-warded cabinet that contained some truly excellent alcoholic drinks that Al himself reserved for important guests.

"Al." Azrael greeted, seating himself gracefully.

"Azrael!" Al greeted warmly, smiling gruffly. "What business brings you here today?"

"Someone has broken the Gamman law again." Azrael said without preamble. Normally he would at least attempt to play the customary word games, but he was running out of time and Al wouldn't mind the lack of formality.

Al lost the smile and new lines of sorrow seemed to carve themselves into his face, making him seem old in a way that his grey hair and stubble never did. "Hurt or dead?" He asked.

"Dead." Azrael replied flatly. "Two girls, barely seven. Some kind of dark ritual, which limits the possible suspects a lot." Not every monster in the Shades had magic. Most of them did not, in fact, though everyone knew about magic. The was no Statute of Secrecy here, because the Shades was a law unto itself. Anyone spilling the secret of magic into the muggle world would have to deal with the Lords, and no-one wanted _that._

Al regarded him gravely. "You don't have to do it yourself." He said gently. "You don't like killing. Not like others."

"I laid down the law, Al." Azrael said sternly. "I orchestrated the deaths of _every single member_ of the Gamman Guild, one of the biggest child traffickers in the world, as a message to the Shades to stop kidnapping, harming or killing children, and then I slaughtered _everyone_ in the Shades who ignored that message. If I don't deal with people when they break that law, then they'll all think they can get away with it, and things will go back to the way they were."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Al snapped back. "You could hire someone else to deal with it for you. You could let me hire someone to deal with it. You don't have to kill 'em yourself." The bartender softened a little. "You don't need more dreams about dead people."

Azrael stared into the fire wondering what to say. Al waited patiently, letting him get his thoughts into order.

"It isn't about killing them myself." The Hallows Heir said slowly. "I don't particularly care for that. But I can't leave the deaths of their killers to someone who's only fulfilling a contract. That's just revenge, tit for tat. Those people should be killed by someone who cares that those children died."

Al sighed sadly. "You care too much, you know? Makes you do crazy things. Though, your conscience combined with your talent and head for war and politics ... the world will tremble if you ever let those people you saved swear fealty to you."

"They deserve to have their own life, not following my every whim." Azrael argued tiredly. They'd been over this. "Besides," Azrael argued grimly, "I can think of a few people who would disagree with your assessment of my conscience."

Al raised an eyebrow. "They followed you when you destroyed one of the most powerful guilds in the Shades, and there was no small amount of risk involved in that. Callum still giving you trouble?"

"I believe he's going by Col now." Azrael corrected, ignoring Al's quip about Azrael's ... employees. "And nothing major. Mostly accusations. He shuts up after a bruise or three."

Al hummed, letting Azrael's avoidance slide. "You could always tell him the truth."

"He knows the truth." Azrael objected.

"So he knows exactly what poison the Gamman guild used on his sister?" Al asked knowingly. Azrael grimaced.

"I told him it was incurable, but he didn't believe me." Azrael admitted.

"You could provide proof." Al pointed out reasonably. "He'd probably leave you alone after that. Unless you told him that you were the one who rescued all those other children from the hands of the Gamman guild, in which case he'd probably swear fealty to you."

Azrael shuddered. "Why would I want his fealty? He's a pain in the ass. And he's more likely to be disgusted with the sheer number of people I've killed than anything else."

Al hummed noncommittally but dropped the subject for now. Pulling himself up, he went to the drinks cabinet and poured two small glasses of scotch, handing one to the Hallows Heir. Azrael swirled the amber liquid round the tumbler, staring into the murky depths.

The barkeeper watched the boy over the rim of his own glass. Azrael was dressed almost completely in black, down to the black dragon hide leather sheaths for his various knives and throwing knives, both poisoned and not, as well as the back sheath that contained a long knife that was more of a short sword than anything. Al was also willing to bet that Azrael hand more knives strapped to his legs, as well as a few smaller and more discreet lethal items hidden in less obvious places. Not to mention the obligatory supply of potions that were undoubtedly secreted away on his person.

All in all, Azrael looked very dangerous, very adult. Only his short stature and youthful face belied that and Al knew that Azrael didn't look very young at all when he was killing people. Really, the Hallows Heir might as well be an adult in a child's body.

Azrael broke the silence that had fallen between them. "You know what I need."

Al sighed and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "Names, address, layout and wards." He said. "It's the place they did the ritual to kill those girls; my sources indicate that they're there every night, teaching themselves more about dark magic."

"Price?" Azrael asked.

"Come by sometime next week." Al invited. "There's a group of people who hang around outside waiting for a buddy of theirs to leave so they can ambush him. It's bad for business when customers have to worry about being attacked just outside."

"Understood." Azrael took the piece of paper from the barkeeper. "They'll be taught better."

Al graced the Hallows Heir with a rare genuine smile. "You look after yourself. I heard you're going to that prestigious school - be careful you don't forget what's important up there."

Standing, Azrael replied. "Certainly, Al. I'm not about to lose my touch because of some soft school. But I can't just show up at seventeen to claim my seats without answering questions. Better to start out now, when I'm not as noteworthy. Give myself a background history, so to speak."

Al inclined his head in acceptance, and Azrael strode over to the door, donning his cloak as he went. Once there, he paused before turning to look at the man still sat by the fire.

"Al." Azrael began, voice serious in a way it hadn't been before, and the barkeeper turned to look at him. ""Why do you think I should accept the fealty of all those people?"

"Isn't it obvious, Azrael?" Al asked in surprise. "Those people are loyal to you, and only you. They'll never follow someone else, and they always do anything they think you need. Accepting their fealty wouldn't change anything, it would just be more formal and give them more protection."

"I don't-" Azrael startled, badly. "I mean - why?"

"You saved them, each of them, from a fate worse than death and demanded nothing in return. Hell, lad, the only thing you demanded was that they stay somewhere they could defend themselves and learn to fight as well as possible. You _asked_ them to help you deal with the Gamman Guild and they did, but that was their choice. You didn't act like they should do what you asked because they were less than the ground you walked on, like a lot of the big Guilds do."

Al paused and took a breath before continuing. "The way they see it, they're living on borrowed time. You saved them from a fate worse than death, so they feel like they owe that time to you, to serve you, to the death if need be. And the fact that you'd never make them only sweetens the deal, because it means you'd never throw them away like so many others have. For being that - for being their saviour, for being kind enough to help them and strong enough to protect them - they'll throw themselves at the feet of whatever cause you fight for. They'd throw away their own lives for a single chance at saving yours."

Far from calming Azrael, these words only panicked him, and he shook his head frantically. "No, no - my life, it isn't worth that much."

"It is to them." Al said bluntly. "They couldn't save anyone, they couldn't even save themselves. They don't know how to deal with politics, they couldn't keep each other safe the way you do. And so long as there's the slightest chance that you'll save someone else, then your life is worth more than theirs, because you can save more people; they can't. It's that simple." Al softened a little. "They're yours, lad, body and soul. You don't have to like it, you just have to know. They're yours, to teach, to guide, to protect, to keep from harm. They're _your people._ The only person you're hurting by not accepting their fealty is them, because if they're officially yours then no-one can hurt them without going through you."

"I'm protecting them now." Azrael said, but the reassurance sounded weak to his own ears.

Al inclined his head. "Your threat is keeping them safe." He said bluntly. "You promised that you'd kill anyone who hurt your people and it wouldn't be quick. But just like with the Gamman law, someone's gonna call your bluff and hurt them - probably badly - and the only thing you're going to be able to do at that point is kill the people that called your bluff. And that won't bring your people back, it won't make them unhurt."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "You know as well as I that near everyone here acts on orders of some sort, but if those orders to hurt your people are coming from some Guild, then you won't be able to touch them for harming your people because you had no claim on them other than your word. You are a nobody to the Guilds, almost-Heir of the Third Lord or not, so they can order your people killed and the only people you will be allowed to retaliate against is the followers who carried out the order."

"Cannon fodder." Azrael murmured.

"Exactly." Al nodded. "And the Guildmasters are free to order more of your people dead."

"Unless I am a Guildmaster too." Azrael said with a sinking feeling. "In which case they have to challenge me directly or risk the wrath of the Lords."

"Yes." Al said. "If you're a Guildmaster, then they must kill you, defeat you in a court of combat or force you to concede defeat before acting directly against your people."

There was silence for a few minutes while Azrael got his spinning thoughts under control, using Occlumency to push the problem to the side for a moment. Once he'd regained some measure of calm, he nodded to Al almost imperceptibly. "Thanks for the heads up." Azrael offered, barely waiting long enough to see Al's returning nod before escaping out of the door. Striding through the pub and out into the slightly fresher air, Azrael unfolded the piece of paper he still had clenched in his fist and unfolded it, squinting at the words in the near-darkness.

He had a law to uphold.

* * *

Azrael Flooed back into Professor McGonagall's office ten minutes before Astronomy was due to start.

"Cutting it a bit fine, Mr Hallows?" The stern Transfiguration Professor asked pointedly.

"Sorry, Professor." Azrael apologised solemnly, hoisting his bag further up his shoulder. "I was practising and lost track of time."

"Practising what, Mr Hallows?" McGonagall asked suspiciously. "I understand that as an emancipated minor, the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Magic does not apply to you, but I do not think it is wise to practise magic beyond your years without an adult present in the event that something goes wrong. Even experienced adults usually alert someone before attempting dangerous magic, such as the animagus transformation, so that medical help can be provided in the event that magic goes astray."

Azrael shook his head lightly. "Not at all ma'am. I was practising Muggle forms of fighting. Hand to hand, staff, sword, that sort of thing. I also do various exercises to help increase speed and agility, since it's only possible to block a lot of high-level spells with a specific shield. Unless you know exactly what spells are heading towards you and how to neutralise them, it makes more sense to Transfigure a barrier or dodge. These exercises are also useful for increasing stamina in a duel."

The Professor's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and she looked for any indication that the young man was lying. Finding none, she nodded sharply. "Very well, Mr Hallows. Five points to Ravenclaw for taking your safety into your own hands. Dismissed."

The Hallows Heir walked out of the classroom, a heavy weight in his chest and the screams of the dying murderers still ringing in his ears.

* * *

Astronomy was boring, but bearable. Since it was so late, even the ever-curious students didn't try to talk to him. Professor Sinestra talked quietly about the stars that they were looking at, lecturing about their positions at different points in the year and the constellations that they were a part of. Lily Potter had taught Ancient Runes much the same way, giving out sheets of basic information and then lecturing on the different uses of the runes and which other runes they could be paired with, leaving it up to them to take notes, although she would answer questions when asked.

(Azrael had found it hard to keep his eyes off of her, and hoped that people assumed he just really liked runes.)

Once the last class of the day was over, Azrael slipped down to the kitchens, hoping to complete his homework near the warm fire with some food, since he'd missed dinner due to his earlier ... business. As usual, the house-elves were more than happy to help, not at all deterred by the unusual colour of his eyes.

"What can wes be doing to help Master Azrael sir?" One of the younger elves squeaked, looking quite nervous.

"Can I have a hot chocolate and one small plate of lasagne, please?" Azrael requested politely. "And if it's not too much trouble, could I please have a table to do my homework on down here while I eat?"

The diminutive elf bowed low and snapped his fingers, conjuring a small table and comfy chair. "Your food will be ready in one moment, Master Azrael sir." He said. Azrael thanked the young elf and sat, pulling out his books and quietly scratching away at his homework.

At first the elves were quiet, aware of Azrael's presence, but gradually conversation picked up again and Azrael listened, still pretending to be absorbed in his homework. At first it was just because of habit, an inability to ignore his surroundings in case he was attacked, but the more he listened the more he learned. They small creatures only really talked about their work, but even that told him a lot about what was going on. For instance, Dumbledore had asked them to do more chocolate-related puddings while the Dementors were stationed at the gates, Professor Sprout had asked for a lot of raw meat to feed some of her less children-friendly plants, and Professor Snape had asked the house-elves to leave the mess in the dungeons for five students to clean up in detention, which Azrael knew meant that several students had exploded their cauldrons.

He mentally noted the house-elves as a way to gather information about the goings-on in the castle. They obviously wouldn't be able to keep track of everything, but it was still an incredibly valuable resource. Especially given how loyal they were, if he could convince them to trust him. On that note, he politely thanked the small elf who brought him his dinner, which caused the little being to tear up. Azrael happily dug in with one hand while putting the finishing touches on his essay for History of Magic with the other, on which he really couldn't see getting less than an O. Even with Binns teaching the first time round, a third-year essay was still a piece of cake, regardless of the fact that it was supposed to last them a month. He'd wait a couple of weeks before still turning it in early.

The Hallows Heir had resigned himself to standing out in his academic work. It wasn't hard to dumb the material down, but making it sound like it was written by a child was a lot harder than it seemed. Since he'd already made it clear that he'd studied ahead and studied thoroughly when the teachers had come to assess his skill level, it wasn't entirely unexpected that he'd be good at theory, and the block on his magic should prevent him from standing out too much.

Azrael suspected that his best subjects would be History of Magic and Astronomy, because neither of them had a practical (until you O.W.L. level in Runes, anyway) Defence against the Dark Arts because nothing could dampen his aptitude for that subject, and Potions, because of his ability to multitask on about five different things at once, helped along by Occlumency. In every other subject; Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, he intended to be outstanding in theory and exceeds expectations in practice.

Packing up his essay, Azrael drained the last of his hot chocolate from his cup and passed the dirty dishes to the elves with his thanks, before standing and making his way to the door, slipping out and heading to the Ravenclaw common room. He'd missed his appointment with Madam Pomfrey in his haste to deal with problems in the Shades, so he'd drop by the Hospital Wing tomorrow morning to apologise and let her check up on him.

Wandering through the halls, he wondered what the Headmaster would think of him. Would he see Azrael as a potential dark lord thanks to his unhappy past? Would he believe Azrael sought revenge against Bellatrix for what she did to Teddy?

Azrael's footsteps paused for a second before picking up again. He wouldn't go out of his way to kill Bellatrix, as tempting as it was. He'd inevitably have to deal with the Aurors in such a situation, and the Prophet would undoubtedly bring too much attention to Bellatrix's killer. Attention that he was trying to avoid. Not to mention that the more perceptive people would wonder about the third year who could kill Bellatrix Lestrange, a powerful witch who once duelled half the Auror department to a standstill.

He hated the deranged ex-Black, but he wouldn't compromise all his plans for her death.

In the silence of the night, the war general slipped off to bed, plans for the future conflict running through his head.

* * *

 **So! I seem to have updated in a reasonably timely fashion. I hope you like it. I've been mentioning the Shades here and there, whilst working out how important it is going to be, but I've decided that since we've now reached school and things there should calm down a little bit, it was time to learn a bit more about the Shades.**

 **As you can see, politics there is complicated.**

 **Shib. :)**


	15. Chapter 15 - Scars of Life

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 15 - Scars Of Life**

Azrael sat on a bed in the hospital wing, explaining the block on his magical core to the Medi-witch, who hadn't fully understood the situation from the haphazard notes in the Hallows Heirs medical file.

"The exploding potion was experimental." Azrael explained. "Which is even more dangerous than any other potion because it is difficult to reverse without knowing what ingredients were used. On top of that, a large number of spells were cast on me while the potion was still altering me on a fundamental level, which altered the magic of the potion and most likely affected the damage it wrought. Since we don't know exactly what the nonverbal spells cast were even with the aid of a pensieve, it's impossible to work out exactly what effects the conflicting magics had and design a potion or spell to counteract the effects."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "And the effects themselves?"

"The only long term effects the we have found are the changes to my magical core." Azrael explained. "How knowledgeable are you in the field of healing the magical core?"

"Not very." The Medi-witch admitted. "Any cases that complicated are Portkeyed to St Mungos. I can reverse magic on the body and used magic to fix the body but anything that fundamentally changes the magical core requires a specialist to undo or mitigate the damage."

"Then the first thing you should know is that magical power is determined by two things." Azrael informed her. "The magical core and the magical capacity. The core produces magic, while the capacity determines how much magic your body can hold. The potion that exploded seems to have permanently expanded my magical capacity by quite a margin."

Azrael paused for breath before continuing. "There are potions that can temporarily enhance your magical power by expanding your magical capacity. Your core is like a muscle, and works harder to produce more magic to fit your magical capacity. After a while, though, your core can't keep up with the demand to make that much magic and starts converting body mass to keep up with the demand. That's why it's so dangerous to use those potions for any length of time - several people nearly killed themselves because they wanted to be more powerful." Azrael fiddled with the hem of his robes, very aware of Madam Pomfrey's sorrowful gaze fixed on him.

"The same principal applied to me. My magical capacity was expanded, which has so far proven to be permanent; my core attempted to make up the difference, but could not do so for long. The Healers charged with my care were able to stop my core from leeching off of my physical resources, but my magic still fluctuated dangerously. My core would go through phases; first it would produce a lot of magic, perhaps as much as an average adult wizard. During that time I would suffer violent bursts of accidental magic responding to my unsettled emotions, and had to be held within a warded room to prevent the unintentional harm of myself or others. This usually lasted for about two and a half days, before my core was exhausted again. While my core was exhausted and after my current magical reserves had spent themselves, I was at very nearly squib levels of magic. It usually took about four days for my core to recover."

Azrael sighed before looking up at the Medi-witch. "It was during this time that I learned Occlumency, for the purpose of controlling my emotions and therefore limiting the amount of damage my magic could do. The binding on my magic is only changeable through my mindscape, which is far more secure than a tattoo or object. The binding acts as a barrier of sorts; it allows me access to about the average amount of magic for my age so that I can control it, while the rest of my magic is held behind the binding. Technically, that process of my core producing large amounts of magic before exhausting itself is still going on, but the binding prevents it from effecting me."

Madam Pomfrey nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I see how that works. How do you release the magic from the binding safely?"

"I'm allowed a grounding ritual circle at the Manor as a health requirement." Azrael said. "Whenever the binding starts to struggle with holding back that much magic, I go and drain the excess."

"Very well. If it's alright with you I'd like to take a look at the wounds you received later that night? It can't hurt to double-check that you won't suffer any long-term effects." Madam Pomfrey asked, half-wondering if this was when the young man would back off and refuse to show her anything - not that she would blame him, given his reaction to her casting a diagnostic charm on him.

"Sure." Azrael said. "Shirt off?"

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "For accuracy with the diagnostic charms, yes."

The Hallows Heir shrugged out of his robes, setting them to the side and revealing a white shirt and black slacks. The shirt was quickly pulled off, leaving the (currently) thirteen-year-old sitting bare-chested on the bed, a thick and uneven set of scars criss-crossing his chest and back. Madam Pomfrey stared in horror for a second longer than was professional, taken aback by what was before her even with the forewarning of Azrael's medical file. She did notice that Azrael sat on the bed appearing completely unbothered by her scrutiny or poorly-hidden emotions.

Pushing aside her own emotions, she got on with the job. In short order she had determined that it was unlikely that any of Azrael's scars could affect him long-term - at least physically. Putting aside her wand, she cleared her throat. "Physically, you're fine." She said. "Healthy weight, good muscle mass, your scars don't appear to be in danger of causing you long-term problems. Magically, everything is as well as can be expected and the situation with your core is under control." She took a deep breath before continuing. "However, can I ask if you've ever seen a mind healer?"

She noticed the sudden subtle tension Azrael was doing a very good job of hiding. If he hadn't still had his shirt off she probably wouldn't have noticed at all. "No." Azrael said in a calm, measured voice. "In between recovering from my injuries and keeping up with my magical education at home, I didn't really have time."

Madam Pomfrey nodded, ignoring Azrael's discomfort. "Then I recommend you start seeing one. They can really help you to adjust, especially since you haven't really interacted with others for an extended length of time for a while now."

Azrael raised an eyebrow. "I really don't want everyone in school gossiping about Mind-Healers as soon as one is spotted in the halls."

"It won't be necessary to bring anyone in unless you have an objection to Professor Dumbledore being your Mind-Healer." Madam Pomfrey happily brushed off his refusal. "He has a mastery in Mind-Healing, though it isn't well known, and any child who has been moved from an abusive or neglectful household is entitled to sessions with him. Under the circumstances, I do believe you would benefit from sessions with him."

Azrael's jaw nearly dropped. That _had_ to be a dimensional difference, because there's no way he wouldn't have needed them last time round. The cupboard under the stairs alone was nightmare material, let alone killing Quirrelmort or that bloody Basilisk.

"Professor Dumbledore has a Mastery in Mind-Healing?" Azrael asked, covering for his surprise.

"Yes, he does." Madam Pomfrey nodded. "Will you agree to go to at least a first session with him? If you don't want to go to a second then that's fine, but you should at least try something that could help you."

"... Fine." Azrael agreed grudgingly after a moment. He got the feeling that the Medi-witch wouldn't let this go otherwise, and he could always stop after one session.

"Wonderful." She said, making a note on a piece of parchment. "He'll contact you later. I believe we're done for now, then."

Grateful that he could leave, Azrael pulled his shirt and robes back on before escaping the dreaded white room and headed to McGonagall's office. It was a Saturday, so he could go back to Hallows Manor and train for a few hours before working some more on a few projects of his.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was intelligent by anyone's definition, except perhaps his own. He preferred to think that his intelligence was down to the unusual way he looked at the world, rather than something he was born with that made him inherently better than others.

He was intelligent enough to have a very good idea of what Azrael Hallows had suffered. It was part of the reason that he was so very _angry_ at the Ministry for authorising a search of the train by Dementors, an anger that grew when he received a Patronus from his Defence teacher telling him that Azrael had curled up in a shaking ball on the train and refused to even react to other people. An anger that changed to sorrow when he saw Azrael's pale, politely blank face and soaked skin and clothes, knowing that composure like that after meeting the Dementors with a past like the Hallows Heir's only meant strong Occlumency shields.

The Headmaster was glad that he'd thought to send a patronus down to guard the carriages.

Being a Master Occlumens himself, he knew the price for holding back emotion like that and therefore wasn't at all surprised to see Azrael awake at six in the morning, though he had to admit that the child willingly taking on paperwork at such an early hour was a little surprising.

In retrospect, given the quality of the notebooks Hallows had written to revise from, it shouldn't have been surprising at all. And he did wonder if in a few years his teachers actually would be able to use Hallows' books to teach from.

Hallows himself was a bit confusing, Dumbledore could admit to himself. He was very closed off, very Slytherin in his masks - Dumbledore was quite surprised at the Hallows Heir's Sorting, in that regard - and he knew Occlumency, which was far more common among the Pure-blooded children of dark wizards who were trained from a young age to keep their parents secrets. Hallows was also, very, very ... Dumbledore wouldn't use the word intelligent, though he was, but ... aware, of other people. Hallows seemed to give off the impression that he was memorising you, what you looked like, the way you moved, the way you spoke, everything. Knowing people like that was another Slytherin trait.

And yet ... he knew from the statement that Edward Hallows had given to the Aurors before he died that Azrael had repeatedly thrown himself between the younger Hallows and the Death Eaters, had repeatedly and consistently tried to draw the Death Eaters attention onto himself to spare his brother in a desperate show of both bravery and loyalty, which meant that he could have also been a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Azrael was clever, so for obvious reasons Ravenclaw suited him, but the sheer level of effort he must have put in to write something like that potions notebook with a table of ingredients so detailed, was utterly Hufflepuff.

But he hadn't seen those other qualities in the Hallows Heir at all. Granted, it had only been three days and Azrael had spent some of that out of school, but still. He hadn't seen any emotion in the boy at school except vague dislike of the Potter boy (Dumbledore felt his own nose wrinkling in distaste at the memory of Potter's bullying) and interest in the Lovegood girl. It worried him; nothing good ever came of closing yourself off from the world around you emotionally. Two examples of that leapt out at him, and Albus Dumbledore wondered who Azrael Hallows was more like; Tom Riddle or Severus Snape.

(He wondered if it really mattered; there was a good chance of it not making a difference either way.)

But there was always a chance that Hallows would never want to become a dark lord, if he blamed Bellatrix's master for her actions. And his interest in the Lovegood girl meant that there was a chance for both of them to gain a friend.

Dumbledore wondered if Azrael had realised what it meant that no-one would sit next to Luna. He wondered if Azrael saw a kindred spirit - someone else who suffered.

He set down the quill and sighed. It seemed his thoughts were getting away from him, again. That seemed to happen more and more often, as worry about Lord Voldemort's near revivals weighed on him, as did the knowledge of how exactly Voldemort had managed to survive a killing curse bouncing back in his face. He had already begun to search for more of the dark lord's Horcruxes, but he had little hope of finding more. All he could do was gather evidence of Tom Riddle's past in between his already busy schedule and hope that the budding dark lord had been sentimental enough to hide the objects in places that held meaning for him.

That was laughable in itself, given Tom's fascination with not having emotions, sentimentality included.

His musings were interrupted by one of his instruments chiming to announce a visitor, and he was surprised to see the Potions Master sweep into his office.

"Severus, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked, holding out the bowl of lemon drops to no avail.

"Mr Hallows is gifted." Snape said tersely. Dumbledore didn't believe he'd ever heard the prickly man issue such a compliment, not even to his snakes.

"Oh? You had your first lesson with him then, I take it?" The Headmaster asked politely.

"I made him work alone to see what his skills are." Snape said, ignoring what he considered to be a stupid question. He'd hardly be telling Dumbledore that the boy was gifted if he hadn't had a lesson with Hallows, would he?

Dumbledore frowned in disappointment. "That would have made it impossible to complete the potion in time, Severus."

"Not impossible," Snape disagreed, and was Dumbledore dreaming or was that a trace of smugness in the Potion Master's tone. "and the point of the exercise wasn't to turn in a potion, it was to prepare the ingredients correctly. I know he knows the theory but how well you can dice ingredients can make a difference to the quality of the potion and a side effect of extended exposure to the Cruciatus is a tremor; you know that is why I was spared a good deal of the Dark Lord's punishments."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but chose not to comment. "So he completed the potion?"

Snape nodded. "He prepared the ingredients as he brewed the potion, and the potion he turned in was perfect. He either prepared the ingredients perfectly or he knows enough to counter the effects of poorly cut ingredients to turn out a perfect potion anyway." Dumbledore definitely wasn't imagining it; Snape sounded almost gleeful, though it would be damn near undetectable to someone who didn't know his as well as Dumbledore did.

"You seem to be positively singing his praises." Dumbledore remarked, watching with amusement the predictable effect the remark had on Snape. The man scowled.

"Hardly. He only barely managed to add ingredients in time on several occasions and other explosions almost made him lose his focus." The Potions Master snapped.

Dumbledore hummed noncommittally. "What do you intend to do?"

"Give him progressively harder work." Snape said. "Depending on how fast he can work to an acceptable standard, he should be able to complete the third year curriculum earlier than his peers."

"What will he do for the rest of the year in potions then?" Dumbledore frowned.

"Fourth year material." Snape said. "He should be able to take his Potions O.W.L early if he can keep up the pace."

"Do you not think that he should be moved to fourth year potions instead?" Dumbledore asked.

Snape shook his head. "I cannot be certain that he fully understands the third-year material until I have seen examples of it. Besides, if he was moved up to fourth year then he would have to keep up with a larger workload. This way he can study at his own pace."

Dumbledore struggled to hide his surprise. "That's ... uncharacteristically thoughtful of you, Severus." He said, watching the Potions Master carefully.

Snape sneered. "He seems to have inherited his parents talent, and I have no wish to waste talent with a large workload."

The Headmaster looked at Snape over his half-moon spectacles. "That is not your only reason, loathe to waste talent as you may be."

"... I find it curious that the explosion which killed his parents has not rendered him averse to potion-making." The spy finally admitted.

"Perhaps he holds the Death Eaters responsible rather that the potion." Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Though now you mention it, that is odd ..." The old man drifted into thought before visibly shaking himself. "Still, perhaps his parents instilled a love for the art which has remained after their deaths."

"Perhaps." Snape agreed noncommittally, only to scowl heavily when Sirius Black burst through the door. "If that's all, I believe I'll be leaving, Headmaster." Without another word he swept out.

Sirius paid no attention to the characteristically bad mood of the Potions Master. The two of them mostly got along by pretending the other didn't exist, and while Dumbledore would prefer that they at least learned to work together professionally, he wasn't going to push his luck. He wanted to castle to stay intact, thank you very much.

"Ah, Sirius, what can I do for you?" He asked, eyes doing their customary twinkle.

The Professor scratched the back of his head sheepishly, holding out a piece of parchment. "I was wondering if you could tell me how accurate this is? I looked in the library but couldn't find anything concrete."

"And you couldn't ask Madam Pince?" Dumbledore failed to contain his amusement, and Sirius grimaced.

"She still hasn't forgiven us for that prank we pulled once we finished out N.E.W.T exams." He admitted.

"My dear boy, surely you didn't expect her to react kindly to you risking her precious books?" The Headmaster couldn't contain his mirth.

"Well no, that why we waited until we'd finished our N.E.W.T exams." Sirius protested. "It's not like we knew we were going to become teachers back then."

"Indeed." Dumbledore said. "Now what has stumped you so?"

"I had everyone from my classes fill in the outline of person with facts from the life of whichever person I gave them." Sirius said. "Unfortunately for me, that new third-year student seems to know more about the subject than I do."

Dumbledore took the parchment, eyeing the small but not unreadable neat writing. "Why would you believe I know all the answers? I am not omniscient, despite my reputation."

"Look at the person I gave him." Sirius said, pointing to the top corner of the parchment. Dumbledore read the name and realised why Sirius had thought that he would know the answers.

"Nicolas Flamel." He said, recalling with a pang of sadness his friend's destroyed stone, and destroyed lives. He deeply regretted that his inadequate protections had caused their lives to be lost, though in the end it was they who insisted that the Philosopher's Stone be destroyed. Pushing away the guilt, he scanned the parchment, wondering what Azrael Hallows had written that Sirius did not know about. He felt his eyebrows rising higher with each fact that was written, all of them correct. "That's all correct. An O at the very least, I would say." Dumbledore told Sirius, hiding his unease. Most of those facts are not found in common reading material, even for an advanced thirteen-year-old with a love of the written word and time to study whatever he chose.

"Thanks, Albus!" Sirius grinned, taking the parchment back. "I'll see you at dinner."

A frown etched itself into Dumbledore's forehead the moment the door swung shut behind his History of Magic teacher. His mind began to race as he considered the possibilities, and he stood and started pacing as he usually did when turning a puzzle over in his mind.

Why would Azrael Hallows have read books specifically on Nicolas Flamel? And it was specifically on Nicolas Flamel, he knew that. Several of those facts were mentioned only in one book, and all of the titles that Dumbledore knew the information came from was obscure, and in some cases unsuitable for children. So the question remained, why was Azrael Hallows interested in Nicolas Flamel?

... Well, he could think of one reason why anyone would want to know about the famous alchemist, but he dearly hoped that the Hallows Heir _wasn't_ hoping to find and steal the Philosopher's Stone.

There wasn't much he could (or even needed) to do if that was why Azrael Hallows had come to Hogwarts, at least. The Stone was destroyed and Hallows would find no trace of it here. Dumbledore would set an intent ward around the third-floor corridor so that if Azrael Hallows stepped there looking for the Stone, he would be alerted. And ... Dumbledore glanced towards the perch where Fawkes sometimes sat. Perhaps his phoenix could be persuaded to take the measure of the child, for the purpose of finding out his intentions. It was less invasive than Legilimency, though he wasn't above invading privacy if he felt it impacted the safety of his students.

Yes, he decided, that would do. The Hallows Heir might simply have heard rumours about Neville Longbottom's adventures in first year and decided to research the Philosopher's Stone, rather than another plot to steal the Elixir of Life. Innocent until proven guilty, after all.

And if it turned out that Azrael Hallows was guilty ... Dumbledore glanced towards the perch again. Well, he would be ready for that, too.

* * *

 **Another chapter in a reasonably timely fashion! Go me.** **I hope you like it, I figured it was time to get a move on with the actual story.**

 **Shib. :)**


	16. Chapter 16 - Et Milites Foedavit

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 16 - Et Milites Foedavit**

Azrael was beyond glad when he was able to escape the castle on Saturday afternoon, finally ready to put the first stage of his plans in place. Tucked away in the study of Hallows Manor, he stared down at the four letters on his desk. These four letters could quite possible be the beginning of his spy network, and hopefully a way to force Britain to fight for itself.

They were written on homemade parchment, written with muggle ink meant for fountain pens that could have been bought anywhere, and layered with as many spells meant to prevent the recipient from tracking down the sender as Azrael could manage without risking setting the parchment alight. He'd also put several secrecy charms in place as well as safeguards that wouldn't allow the letter to be read by just anyone. All in all, he'd done everything he could to ensure that the information would only go to whoever was supposed to receive it and that the recipient wouldn't learn anything about Azrael from it. Even the handwriting looked nothing like his usual style.

It only made sense that Azrael take precautions regarding his own identity, especially since a thirteen year old leading a resistance would raise eyebrows and he would be contacting some really ... curious people. Clever, curious, stubborn people that didn't necessarily know when to leave well enough alone.

These first four letters were written to Augusta Longbottom, Sirius Black, Bill Weasley and Alistaire Delacour. Azrael had verified that all of them were clean in this world, though he was nowhere near finished with his research as a whole. He still had a long way to go before he knew enough about the players on the board, both politically and in terms of the Second War.

Starting with these four in particular was a tactical move on several fronts. The first, and most obvious, was their occupations and contacts; the proxy of an ancient and noble house and a feared witch in her own right, an ex-auror teacher, a goblin curse-breaker and a man with serious connections to the French Ministry of Magic was nothing to sneeze at. The second reason was that while all of them were good people, and perfectly capable of fighting if necessary with other skills that would be useful in the meanwhile, none of them possessed the tenacity, skill or means to track down the sender of the letter. It was why one reason Azrael was holding off on contacting people like Snape and Dumbledore about joining his group; Dumbledore possessed the kind of insane genius that would let him draw the parallels between the sender of this letter and Azrael Hallows.

On the other hand, three of the four he was sending letters to had never met Azrael Hallows, and the other was dense enough to not notice if Snape had been polyjuiced as James. That lessened the chances of discovery massively.

The other reason that he wasn't including with Dumbledore at this stage was that Azrael was absolutely certain Dumbledore would disapprove of his methods. His organisation did not need that kind of confidence cut-down, and he didn't want anyone to start seeing Dumbledore as an authority figure, which they undoubtedly would if he started expressing his opinions loudly when people were unsure of what they should do in any given situation. No, better to wait until his organisation was fully established before bringing Dumbledore in; that way all the hiccups and questions would already have been dealt with by the time Dumbledore was involved, and people would already know how to deal with whatever problems might arise. Dumbledore's opinion would be both unwanted and unneeded.

With a sigh and a flick of his wand the four letters on his desk shivered and disappeared. Finally done with that bit of business, Azrael picked up the letter that had been delivered by a surprisingly fierce brown owl. Recognising the handwriting on the front as Richard's, Azrael broke it open with some hesitation. All that was written was the name of some café in London with the letters A.S.A.P printed below it.

Azrael stared at the letter thoughtfully. With luck, this meant that Richard had decided to agree to his request, but he wouldn't know for sure until he went. Azrael glanced at his cloak lying across the back of a chair. He still had time before dealing with everything else on his schedule and going back to Hogwarts.

* * *

Twenty minutes and transfigured muggle clothes later, Azrael stepped through the door of the café. It was only his heavily armed state that prevented him from twitching in discomfort when an alert ward went off as he entered. Reminding himself harshly that this wasn't an ambush, he bought a Pepsi and sat at an out-of-the-way table. It didn't take five minutes for the elder wizard to arrive, and with a quick bit of spellwork, eavesdropping on the unlikely pair without their knowledge became nigh on impossible.

Azrael sipped from his drink while watching Richard surreptitiously. The lawyer seemed a little nervous, though Azrael only noticed because he was familiar with the man's mannerisms from another world and time.

"Have you reached a decision?" Azrael asked bluntly. His social skills had taken a steep nosedive, what with the years of barking out orders and the following isolation, so he honestly didn't know how else to begin. Besides which, he didn't know this Richard well enough to treat him like the friend Azrael still saw him as.

"I have." Richard said, taking a sip from his coffee to steady himself. "I'm ... tired of watching the Purebloods trample over the law. I don't want to have to turn a blind eye to the unfairness and prejudice shown to muggleborns any more. If you give me the Hallows proxy ..." The lawyer took a deep breath and looked straight at Azrael, "I will use it to fight for the spirit of the law."

Azrael regarded the man solemnly, starkly reminded of both the similarities and differences between the two versions of Richard he had known. His Richard did not have the will - the hope - to fight for anything. Just a need for closure and a wait for death. This Richard was so much more alive, and Azrael felt a pang of empathy for his friend who had lived through the deaths of his family. That Richard had lost so much, to change so drastically.

"You understand that you will have to play the pureblood games, don't you?" Azrael warned him. "You can fight for justice, but you won't win without allies. The Wizengamot is too full of purebloods who benefit from the status quo. And fighting for a lost cause will politically damage the House of Hallows."

Richard swallowed convulsively. "I understand, and I will do nothing to damage the House of Hallows. But I will use my position to work towards equality in the future - play the long game, so to speak." He shook himself a little, as if to rid himself of the dark thoughts. "Besides, we might not be so without allies as you think. The House of Hallows has been out of the political arena for a while, but I've kept in contact with the Dowager Longbottom and Cyril Greengrass. We share similar views, and they might at least consider working with us, if not as official allies then on specific bills that we agree upon."

Azrael quirked an eyebrow, surprised and amused. "That sounds fine. I'm sure you're quite capable of navigating alliances."

"I do have one condition." Richard said softly. "I want Emmalyn to know the truth."

That wasn't an unexpected development, Azrael mused. Still ... "I can't tell her anything without a confidentiality oath."

The lawyer winced, but nodded. "I expected you might say that." He admitted. "There's a lot to lose if your past gets out. But if you're willing to tell her if she agrees to take the oath, them I'm willing to be the Hallows proxy for you."

Azrael let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. "Thank you." With a snap of his fingers, a pile of official documents appeared on the table. (Azrael really loved house elves sometimes.) With a grin, the Hallows heir shoved the paper towards Richard. "Read and sign. You'll need to add in that bit about your wife being privy to secrets of House Hallows if she takes a confidentiality oath yourself. I'll sign it when you're done, and then we can get Dobby to witness it."

"Dobby? Your house-elf?" Richard looked surprised.

The Hallows Heir shrugged. "He's reliable, there's no law against it, and he's insanely loyal to me. It's surprisingly secure."

Richard blinked but didn't question any further, turning to the paperwork instead. Legalese, he understood. Legalese made _sense_ , unlike other things (people) he could name.

A few hours later and everything had been read and signed. A quick order to Dobby had taken the paperwork to the Goblins to be filed, and an announcement would be made at the next Wizengamot meeting and probably in tomorrow's Daily Prophet as well. It never did take long for news to get around the Wizarding World.

"Do you mind if we go through some of the laws that you want changed and upcoming bills that are going to be a problem now?" Richard asked. "With you in Hogwarts, we might not have a chance to talk in person before the next meeting, and I'd like some idea of what I'm trying to achieve walking in. That way I should also have a chance to contact Lady Longbottom and Lord Greengrass before we begin, to see if our goals are compatible."

Azrael agreed readily, and the pair spent the next few hours going through every law that Azrael could ever remember inconveniencing him and his friends, as well as the ones that his Richard had delivered particularly scathing diatribes about. Then they discussed ways to nullify those laws or have them modified to be less devastating, as well as manipulating the political arena so some laws would never be passed. (Umbridge's foul anti-werewolf measures sprang to mind.) Eventually they had gone through everything Azrael could think off, and the younger of the two stood and stretched.

"I'm going to leave." Azrael told the older man. "I can't think of anything else that would help you, and I'm not doing much to help right now anyway."

Richard grunted, absorbed in the notes they had made. Azrael rolled his eyes. "Just remember to charm all those notes so that no-one else can read them, won't you?" After receiving another acknowledging grunt, Azrael left the café and ducked out of sight before apparating back to Hallows Manor. He had to change into some hardier clothes, and then he was going to the Shades - he had some people he needed to talk to, and he had to fulfil that favour he owed Al.

* * *

Augusta Longbottom was a practical woman, so when she saw a letter on her desk behind the near-impenetrable wards of Longbottom Manor the first thing she did was scan in for any harmful spells or curses. The wards around the manor should prevent anything charmed to harm the Longbottom family from even entering the grounds, but given the fact that they weren't supposed to let unauthorised letters on the grounds in the first place, she supposed there was cause for concern.

Curiously, her spells came up negative for anything harmful, though there was an awful lot of secrecy spells involved, both to prevent her from telling anyone about what she read and to protect the identity of the sender. It was, she noted, a lot of effort to go to if it wasn't intended to harm her somehow, though it could be that her spells simply hadn't detected whatever harm the letter was supposed to bring her.

Unfortunately, it looked like the letter would destroy itself if she tried to unravel the secrecy charms, so she had no choice but to either open it or burn it without reading. If she read it, it might have some harmful spell that she hadn't detected or she might really want to tell someone of the contents of the letter but be unable to because of the secrecy charms. On the other hand, if she didn't read the letter she might be missing out on important information that someone had gone to great lengths to give her. It could be that the secrecy charms were only for the purpose of protecting both herself and the sender, if the information was particularly sensitive.

The question was, was she willing to possibly miss vital information for the sake of not risking her life, health and wellbeing?

The answer to that was obvious, of course. Augusta was a Gryffindor in her day and if someone was trying to hurt her, she'd rather have some idea of where her enemy lay than cower in ignorance, always thinking that someone might be out to kill her or her grandson. If the information in the letter was going to help her, then she would have lost nothing.

She ignored the tingling in her fingers as the secrecy charms activated, slicing open the top of the envelope without any fuss. A single sheet of parchment - homemade, she noticed - slipped out. The writing was uniform, too much so to have been written by hand. Likely some spell had been cast to make the handwriting unremarkable, she surmised. Yet another way in which she would not be able to identify the sender of the letter. If nothing else, the Dowager Longbottom was getting the impression that whoever designed this was quite paranoid. She'd suspect Alastor Moody on principle if she didn't know that the retired Auror had no patience for games like these.

The letter read, quite simply;

 **Lady Longbottom,**

 **We are contacting you in a matter regarding your family. As you know, your grandson Heir Longbottom is a target of the Dark Lord who is regrettably very much alive. There is no doubt that he will eventually regain a body with the resources at his disposal and while we are trying our hardest, it is unlikely that we will be able to end his life before his return. Our goal is to work towards the Dark Lord's final death while limiting the damage he can do in the time he has left alive to the best of our ability.**

 **Though we understand the danger of opposing someone so ruthless, we would like to ask for your aid. Our organisation operates on strict secrecy policies, so your identity would be known to only a few of our members. This policy is in place to protect everyone should a member be tortured for the names of their fellows. You will also be given means to disguise yourself for any meetings you may be asked to attend or for any duties that may put you in the public eye. In this manner, we hope to prevent the Death Eaters from targeting our homes and families.**

 **Be warned, however; we are not like the Order of the Phoenix. While we do believe that the Death Eaters may wish to turn from their lord, we will not spare their lives in battle because they might someday repent when the cost is the loss of innocent lives today. If you are not comfortable being part of something that will cost lives, both ours and theirs, do not join. Please know that you are under no obligation to even fight if you do not wish to, let alone kill. We will not force others to compromise their morals for the sake of fighting under our banner.**

 **All we ask is that you try your best to aid us in the ways that you are able. You may turn down any request that we make of you if you are uncomfortable with it. You may also leave us at any time, though be warned - if you leave, we will not take you again. Once you're out, you're out.**

 **If you are interested in joining, please tap your wand to the parchment and say, et milites foedavit. We will send you the aforementioned means of disguising yourself and the letter will activate as a portkey at an arranged time to take you to a meeting with our leader. You have our word on life and magic that you may leave the meeting at any time you chose alive, unharmed and free from mind-altering magics. Going to this meeting is not a commitment; you will not be required to join simply by going. We have no interest in forced service.**

 **If you are not interested, simply burn the letter. If you try to show the letter to anyone or anything else, the letter will burn itself. If you try to unravel the magics on this letter, it will burn. If you wait longer than twenty-four hours to reply to this letter from the moment you opened it, the letter will burn automatically and your negative reply will be assumed.**

 **Please know that regardless of your reply to our offer of membership, Heir Longbottom is a minor and an innocent and in no way will we stand back and allow him to come to harm - like anyone else who has not chosen to fight the Dark Lord, he is a bystander who does not deserve to fear for his life every year and we will attempt to protect him as such. Being the subject of a supposed 'prophecy' does not give anyone the right to throw him in front of a highly skilled mass-murderer and hope that the problem will deal with itself. If the Wizarding World is to be free of this plague, then we must all have a part in what is to come.**

 **We are Et Milites Foedavit, The Soldiers Sullied, and we will stand.**

Augusta let the letter slip from her fingers onto the desk while her mind whirled away, thinking through the implications of what was written there. If whoever was behind this was truly determined - and Augusta would bet that they were, if they went to so much effort to contact her - then she had no doubt that they could make waves in the Wizarding World. After all, they must be extremely skilled to slip a letter past her wards and their sensible precautions with regards to the identity of their members lent credence to the theory that this organisation was at least a little intelligent.

(She had always wondered why Albus Dumbledore didn't do more to protect the identity of his Order, especially given the Dark Lord's habit of killing off entire families when he was enraged, but Augusta Longbottom wasn't the best person to ask for an opinion on the aging Headmaster. She could admit that she didn't especially like the old man.)

Another thing about this organisation - Et Milites Foedavit, she mused - was that they were shockingly well-informed. Even setting aside the prophecy, which only a handful of people were supposed to know about, they were also aware of Dumbledore's views on killing (though that was obvious to anyone with a brain and access to old editions of the Daily Prophet) and more, Augusta suspected that the line about 'not sparing Death Eater lives in battle because they might someday repent when the cost is innocent lives today' was a dig at Dumbledore refusing to fight with anything more than Stunners and restricting his Order to the same. While the Order of the Phoenix's chosen method of fighting was fairly easy knowledge to come by, Dumbledore's 'let's give everyone a second chance even when they're actively trying to kill us and have given no sign that they regret their actions even a little bit' drivel wasn't widely known.

She would bet anything she owned that Et Milites Foedavit had a spy in the Order of the Phoenix. She almost cackled with glee; she wished she could tell the old goat that his refusal to let anyone swear secrecy oaths had backfired spectacularly. The Headmaster had felt that demanding something so absolute would only inspire resentment, despite opposition from within the Order itself.

Augusta sobered quickly. Getting one up on the old man aside, there was far too much she didn't know. Assuming they were telling the truth, then opposing Voldemort was their goal, and if their spiel about not abandoning Neville to the Dark Lord was any indication, they were pretty serious about protecting her grandson and other innocents as well as being disgusted by the actions of Wizarding society as a whole. That was good; unless they were hypocrites, that meant they had a code of honour to abide by. Less chance that they would turn around and throw her grandson to the wolves, both figurative and literal.

Frowning, she added another item to the list of things that the organisation knows about - Neville's years at Hogwarts and the repeated attempts on his life. It was looking more and more like Et Milites Foedavit had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, because Dumbledore had done a lot to keep events at Hogwarts out of the media and the Hogwarts rumour mill made everything so garbled that a plausible series of events was almost impossible to discern from the garbage the majority of the student population sprouted.

In truth, she'd thought more than once about sending Neville to a school abroad, but only Beaubatons and Durmstrang could match up to Hogwarts (even if the standards had fallen in the ancient castle in the last few decades) and Beaubatons was an all-girls school while Durmstrang wouldn't be safe with Karkaroff as Headmaster. Besides, it wasn't so much Hogwarts that was the target as it was Neville. Moving him wouldn't make him safer. As much as it pained her to admit it, Dumbledore did at least try to protect her grandson. Granted, he failed miserably, but things could undoubtedly have turned out worse if Dumbledore hadn't been there - Neville might have died.

But these people, Et Milites Foedavit or The Soldiers Sullied, were apparently going to be more direct in protecting the Longbottom heir.

Augusta looked down at the letter, eyes picking out the emblem embossed at the bottom of the paper. A simple sword wedged point-first into a solid rock floor, with a crack running through the floor from one side of the emblem to the other. Crossing a line, she supposed, and the sword was a clear enough message.

There was really only one thing she could do, because regardless of the potential consequences to herself she would secure her grandson's safety. If these people could provide that, then she would help them. If they were lying about their allegiances, then she would pay the price.

She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. Taking out her wand, she tapped the parchment and spoke the passwords clearly. The letter glowed for a second before the writing that was there only a moment before was wiped away, new words etching themselves in front of her.

 **We are honoured that you wish to assist us. Our leader is available to meet with you at a secure location tomorrow afternoon, Sun** **day the 4th of September at three pm. If you are available to meet at this time, please repeat your acceptance.**

Warily, Augusta tapped the parchment again, repeating the name of the organisation. More words appeared, along with a vial of small blue pills.

 **Repeat your acceptance at the time of the meeting, and it will activate as a portkey and transport you to the secure location we have already mentioned. The blue pills are a curious mixture of Polyjuice and a glamour charm achieved with charms and enchantment. Crush one between your teeth to activate it while concentrating on what you want your appearance to be. Unlike glamour charms it will not be dispelled with a finite incantatem, and unlike Polyjuice** **it lasts as long as a glamour would as well as an almost unlimited shelf life. Come to the meeting disguised, but be sure you are comfortable with your image, because you will be expected to use that image as an alternate identity whenever doing the business of Et Milites Foedavit. At the meeting you will also be given a codename to match your other identity.**

 **Thank you for your co-operation,**

 **Et Milites** **Foedavit**

Augusta thoughtfully let the letter slip from her fingers and sat back in her chair, lifting the vial of blue pills up to the light and inspecting them closely. She'd never heard that someone had managed to combine the effects of glamour charms and Polyjuice - it must be something that the organisation had invented. Their resources must be truly astounding.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn't as afraid of what was coming. She had lived through the war with Grindlewald and lost her parents, then the war with Voldemort and as good as lost her son. She hadn't been looking forward to more years of wondering when she'd lose family, of watching the Ministry be run by people like Lucius Malfoy, of watching Dumbledore's Order save lives only to let Death Eaters walk free.

But these people would kill the Death Eaters without hesitation. These people were at the very least not blind followers of Dumbledore. These people were cautious and powerful with spies in many places. These people would at least be able to do something against the Dark Lord, and that was more than Augusta was used to seeing in the last war.

* * *

 **So I've finally finished this chapter! Sorry people, but I'm now working full time so free time is rapidly dwindling, and all I want to do on my time off is sleep.**

 **Also, Et Milites Foedavit is a google translate baby, so no bashing when the grammar is wrong or something - I don't know Latin, and probably neither does J K Rowling.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


End file.
